Promises
by Ageless Drake
Summary: There are many reasons that men continue to live. Some are simply nobler than others [pregame Braska's pilgrimage. Onesided AxB, limeish AxJ]
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The sun was bright over Bevelle. Auron, who was young but did not feel so today, lifted a hand to block the sharp light from his eyes, and smiled very softly at the wide expanse of blue sky above him. It was hard to believe that Sin was harrowing Spira when the sky looked like that, but he forced himself to admit it; the smile disappeared slowly from his lips, and was replaced with a scowl.

He would be leaving soon, out of safety and necessity and some odd sense of pride and indulgence that had made him agree to be the Guardian of Summoner Braska. Or course, he had been named Guardian before it had been noted at large that Braska was a heretic—he had wed an Al Bhed; they had borne a child—but Auron had stuck by the decree.

Now he _had_ to. The Priests were out for his head, grumbling of dishonor and prideful things that made Auron grumble right back, though his were in foul words and stumbling, annoyed speech. He sighed a little, and looked back up at the cloudless sky. Before very much longer, he'd have to leave to meet with Braska.

"Auron!"

He turned, slowly, and looked towards the slightly older man walking towards him; he bowed a little, and then focused back on the sky for a moment as the man approached him. They stood in silence for a long time, before Auron quietly murmured, "It's a lovely day, isn't it?"

"It is. You'll be leaving soon?" The quick cut of it made Auron smile ruefully and resolve himself to his decision to leave, just that little bit more. He nodded, and looked back to the man. There were others with him, watching him skeptically; one had a sphere recorder, and Auron frowned a little, and tried to ignore them.

"Thanks for everything Kinoc." The man nodded a little, seemed almost to wave it off. He puffed up a little, shaking his head.

"I know I don't need to tell you this, but guard Lord Braska well." Auron sighed, and nodded a little; perhaps he was regretting his decision, just a little, but not enough to wander back in and speak with the Priest. He would not stoop so low.

"That I will. And you'll be busy too." He smiled a little bit then, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I heard they made you second-in-command."

Kinoc sighed, and hung his head, almost chuckling under his breath. His eyes were a little annoyed, a little vengeful; "You know that promotion was meant for you. You were always the better one, even until the very end."

Auron shifted uncomfortably. He didn't enjoy being glorified; he was only twenty-five, and hadn't thought the idea of being made so important a wise one. Perhaps that was why he had turned down the hand of the High Priest's daughter. But no, he knew the real reason behind that; it almost made him smile.

"Well then . . ." Kinoc looked up at Auron, and then at the sky high above them. He sighed, and nodded a little.

"Going already?" He paused, then softly uttered, "You will tell me about Zanarkand when you return, won't you?"

Auron smirked a little, and chuckled under his breath, looking back up at the sky. "Farewell," he murmured, and stepped around Kinoc and the other warrior monks, moving quickly down the bridge into the proper city of Bevelle.

* * *

The apartments that Braska resided in were small, all things considered, and with a considerable noise admitting from them. Auron was a little surprised when he came in—he knew Lord Braska had a child, but had expected a calm, reserved, _well behaved_ child, not some crazed hoodlum rushing about the summoner's apartments with a smile on her face and a small wand in hand.

Auron caught her by the back of the shirt, and shut the door with his back. Braska came into the room, chuckling softly, and spotted him. He stared for a moment, before smiling gently, darting a lock of hair out of his eyes; he took the little girl from Auron's grasp, and held her upside down until she began to giggle helplessly.

"And what do we say to guests, Yuna?" Braska questioned. The little girl continued to giggle, before finally squeaking out a breathless 'hello!', at which Braska placed her properly on the floor, and pushed her into the next room. "Go sit down, you little fiend. I'll deal with you later."

Braska turned back to Auron with a breathless smile, and Auron felt his cheeks heat a little. He ducked his head in a quick, deeply formal bow, at which Braska chuckled gently.

"Come in, Auron, come in. I'm afraid I'm not quite prepared. Yuna thought it fit that we play one last game before I was off." He began to wave about at the main sitting room, than stopped, and shrugged a little at the disarray. "You'll have to forgive the general lawlessness. Come into the kitchen?"

Auron nodded a little, and followed after Braska, trying to convince himself that the tightening in his chest was from the unexpected display of ease, not from the way Braska's eyes sparkled a little when he smiled—. He stopped, and shook his head, berating himself.

Yuna was sitting on the table in the kitchen, swinging her legs back and forth. Her large eyes, mismatched and as brilliant as her father's, trailed from Braska to Auron, and she smiled brightly. In her most stern child's voice, she asked, "Are you gonna keep my daddy safe?"

"Yes," came Auron's immediate, perhaps too hasty retort. Braska chuckled softly, and kissed his daughter's brow.

"Yuna, haven't you anything better to do than terrorize the poor man?" He smiled back at Auron a little, and plopped his daughter onto the floor again. "Go on. You've got plenty of lovely toys in your room. And you should be packing before we leave."

She hurried out of the room, waving at both of them, and Braska sighed, leaning against the table a little. He laughed, and smiled brightly, his eyes trailing over to Auron, who coughed to cover his unease; Braska waved a hand dismissively.

"Ah, you wouldn't understand children, would you? You're practically a child yourself."

"I'm . . . I'm almost twenty-six, Sir," Auron grumbled. Braska raised his brows at the proclamation, and smiled slightly.

"I was that old when I married Yuna's mother. You're a child." Auron bristled a little, and Braska quickly continued, "Youth is a wonderful thing, Auron. You'll be much faster in battle than I will. For battle we will come to, don't you doubt. Come, help me with the last of my things, and then we'll be off."

"So soon?" Braska smiled over his shoulder a little, and disappeared down a short hall. Auron followed without a thought. Through the door across from the one Braska slipped through, they could hear Yuna talking to herself, as was the fashion of small children of her age. In his room, Braska stood over his things, his hands flat on the bed as he eyes darted over the last of what he wished to take.

Auron stood in the door and simply stared for a moment, before berating himself again; nothing constructive could come of such rampant, wanton thoughts, he deduced, as nothing could have come of them when he'd been in the Temple. He pushed them aside, and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorjamb.

"I've already received the aeon from the Temple, you see, so once I've made sure Yuna is settled, we'll make one stop, and then be on our way."

"One stop, Sir?" Braska looked up from the careful folding of some item or another, and nodded very slowly.

"I heard, from a Priest, that there was a man being held at the Temple. He says he's from Zanarkand." Auron scoffed, and rolled his eyes as he shook his head a little. Braska smiled a little, and shrugged. "I believe he may be telling the truth."

"You believe some raving lunatic? There are plenty of those on the road. And it is my duty to make sure you aren't harmed by any of them." Braska's smile was one of warm appreciation, but his eyes twinkled in a fashion that seemed to tell Auron that his mind was already made up, and no amount of discussion would sway him otherwise.

"I'd like you to come with me when I go to speak with him, Auron. It would mean a great deal."

Auron almost swore, and cracked the knuckles on his left hand instead. He nodded absently, than more resolutely, and agreed in a soft murmuring grumble. Braska finished the last of his packing, and slapped Auron's shoulder gently as he passed him out the door, and crossed the hall to Yuna's bedroom; he knocked softly before opening and ducking in to smile at his daughter.

Yuna stared up at her father with huge bi colored eyes and smiled. She had a small, brilliantly pink pack held in her hands in front of her, and proclaimed firmly, "I'm coming too!" Braska smiled at her gently, and ruffled her short brown hair. Auron could see, in his profile, the pain in the young summoner's eyes, and bit his lip gently.

"I'm sure you'd be a big help, Miss Yuna," he suddenly supplied. Braska looked over at him a little, cocking a brow. Auron knelt down before the little girl, and smiled a little unsurely. "But your father would be so worried for you, he'd not know what to do! You'll be fine with the Priests, won't you?"

"I . . . I s'ppose," she mewled quietly, kicking at the floor a little. Auron smiled a little more genuinely, and offered his palm to the little girl.

"I know some of the Priests you'll be staying with," he stated as they walked towards the door out of Braska's apartments. "They'll take good care of you. You'll hardly notice your father is away." Yuna nodded a little. Braska came up beside Auron, and offered a quiet little smile as he fixed his headdress and straightened his outfit entirely.

He displayed himself as Yuna turned, and smiled slightly. "How do I look, my precious?" Yuna clapped and bounced about happily, having dropped Auron's hand. Braska's smile grew, but the pain in his eyes did not leave.

He bundled Yuna to his chest as they left the apartments, and Auron quietly took up his bags. The thanks in his eyes was clear and pure, and Auron could only duck his head a little, shrugging nonsensically at that appreciation.

Though, truthfully, he was a little surprised with himself. In the hour—had it been so long?—he'd been in the summoner's presence, his heart had stoned to his resolve to protect this man to his end, however that might come about. There was a doubtful voice in the back of his mind; he supplicated it with the firm resolve that he would keep his promise: he would protect Yuna's father.

* * *

The prison of Bevelle was not a pleasant place. As a warrior monk, Auron had been down there once or twice. He knew some of the Crusaders who guarded the place by name, for one reason or another—no reason that he would ever mention, take mind, but reasons nonetheless—but was still uncomfortable entering the prison after leaving Braska's daughter with the Priests.

Braska seemed to have no trepidations to speak of. He had spoken with one of the head Priests before entering the prison, had learned a few more things about his mysterious inquiry—Auron used the term lightly; from what he understood of the exchange, he was likely to believe that the man was a drunken lunatic—and had adjourned to the cell block that held the man.

He was brute, rough-looking thing, somewhere between Auron and Braska's ages, with dark hair and richly tanned, brutalized flesh. It was not his muscular build that drew any attention though, or even the obscure marking he had plastered across his wantonly bare chest. Auron remained fixated for some time by simply the man's _eyes_.

Braska was watching him critically, scanning him over. The man sneered offensively.

"Who're you?"

Braska did not immediately answer. Instead, he asked, "You are the one they call _Jecht_, the man from Zanarkand, are you not?"

The man snorted a little, watched Braska closely for a moment. There was something in those eyes then, racking over Braska's body, that set Auron's blood to boiling; he began towards them as the dark man demanded, "What of it?"

"Watch your tongue, knave!" he snarled to the man, placing himself just a little in front of Braska. The older man chuckled very softly, nodding towards Auron consolingly; he deflated a little, but kept a hand on the pummel of his sword.

Braska turned his attention back to the dark man, inclining his head slowly. He spoke with a congenial air: "My apologizes. I am Braska, a summoner." From the look in the man's eyes, this meant nothing. He continued with, "I've come to take you from this place."

The man rose from the floor, and approached the bars, leaning against them. He smirked slightly. "Sounds sweet," he uttered. "What's the catch?"

Auron bristled at the brusque statement, but Braska laughed, almost a little shyly. "That easy to see, was it?" He sighed a little, and explained in an airy tone, "I soon leave on a pilgrimage. To Zanarkand."

He seemed unsure of the words, straightened a little. "Seriously?"

Braska nodded, and stated, "I'd like for you to join us. It will be a dangerous trip." The dark man shrugged at that, rolling his eyes a little as Braska continued, "Yet, if we reach Zanarkand . . . my prayers will be answered. And you will be able to go home, we think."

For a moment, there was only silence. Braska smiled, just a little. "What say you?"

"Great. Let's go." Braska's smile seemed infectious on the other man, though his was far less pleasant. It unsettled Auron uncontrollably. Yet Braska was chuckling a little at the other man's enthusiasm.

"So quickly?"

"_Anything_ to get outta here."

To that, Braska only nodded. "Then it's settled."

Auron broke in, uncomfortable with this new arrangement. "But I must protest. This _drunkard_? A Guardian?"

"Hey," the man growled, leaning towards Auron a little. "You wanna step in here and say that?" Auron ignored him pointedly, making the man swear a little under his breath. Braska shrugged one shoulder, and resettled his robes a bit.

He voice was far lighter than his words. "What does it matter? No one _truly_ believes that I, a fallen summoner wed to an Al Bhed, could possibly defeat Sin. This is what they say." He looked at Auron, smiling slightly. "No one expects us to succeed."

"Braska, sir," Auron tried, stepping just a bit closer to the summoner. His smile grew a little as he looked between the two other men.

"Let's show them they're wrong. A fallen summoner, a man from Zanarkand, and a warrior monk doomed to obscurity for refusing the hand of the Priest's daughter." He laughed lightly then, his eyes almost bright. "What delightful irony it would be if we defeated Sin!"

From the cell came the rough grumble of, "Stop gabbin' and get me _outta_ here."

Auron shook his head, and walked off, listening to the clang and slide of the cell being opened. He could feel Braska following behind him, but didn't turn and voice his concern. They strode into an upper antechamber, and into the office of the High Priest. Yuna was still there, speaking with a priestess who smiled and was offering her sweets.

Braska smiled at his daughter, settled into a comfortable chair. Auron bristled, shifting from foot to foot absently. Finally, the summoner chuckled, leaning forward in his seat, watching Auron for a moment.

"What's on your mind?"

"Sir," Auron began respectfully. He gave up the respect in exchange for the honesty he thought was desperately needed. "I think it unwise to bring this man with us."

"And why is that?"

Ignoring his sudden urge to grab the summoner and shake him until the sense came back into his head, Auron shot into a rather pointedly edited—Yuna was still in the room, after all, and now watching them intently—and pervasive litany of just exactly _why_ they should have kept the man in his cell.

Finishing just as the door opened and said man strode in confidently, smirking a little to hear the end of the tirade. "Nice to see my presence is appreciated." Auron ignored him, watching Yuna be escorted out of the room by the young priestess.

After a tense bit of silence, the man stretched widely, sighing slightly. "Ah. Free at last!"

"Now Jecht," Braska began, standing and striding to the man's side. "I'm in your hands until we reach Zanarkand."

"Right, right." He waved it off a little bit, then looked a bit sheepish. "So . . . what's a summer-ner, anyway?"

Auron buried his face in his hands and prayed for some righteous salvation as Braska laughed brightly and began to quickly explain the situation.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

They stayed in the Temple that day, and Braska woke them early the next morning, a quiet smile on his lips. He was already in garb, his staff balanced over his shoulders as Auron and Jecht finished readying.

He grabbed Auron's sleeve as they left the Temple's door, and gently said, "The first chance we get, we should find him a weapon."

"He could complain at the fiends we encounter," Auron grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. Braska chuckled, and smiled very softly.

"You really don't care for him, do you?"

Auron wanted desperately to inform Braska just how much he 'didn't care' for Jecht and his brash nature. Instead, he ducked his head, and shrugged one shoulder a little. "It isn't my place to judge your choice in Guardians, Sir Braska."

"Auron . . ."

He quieted as Jecht joined them, looking tired and a little hung over. Auron shook his head, and stepped into the growing half-light of early morning. Most of Bevelle was still deep asleep, and would be so for some hours. It was comforting, and well suited that they leave before anyone would see them.

Jecht was walking just behind him, erratic and distracting. Auron grumbled, and finally turned to glare at him a little. The large man had a sphere-recorder between his hands, and was swinging it about as though taking in the entire landscape. Braska was chuckling again.

"What are you taking?" Auron demanded, thinking of snatching the contraption away from the man before he broke it.

"Well, you said it was going to be a long trip." Auron shook his head as Jecht stopped, and he and Braska strode past him. Jecht continued, "We'll be seeing a lot of neat things, right? So I thought I'd record it all in this." He was quiet for a moment, before adding, "To show to my wife and kid, you know."

Auron whirled, and glared at Jecht a little. "This is no pleasure cruise!"

Jecht ignored him. "Hey Braska. Ain't this supposed to be a grand occasion? Where're the cheering fans? The crying women?"

"This is it," Braska said, his voice light but a little strained. He was looking off into the distance. "Too many goodbyes—people think twice about leaving."

Jecht wasn't happy with that answer. He walked on a little bit, still waving the sphere recorder around like a mad thing, taking in as much of Bevelle as he could from the Highbridge. "Hm . . . If you say so. Well, it better be a lot more colorful when we come back. A parade for Braska, vanquisher of Sin!"

Braska laughed, shaking his head a little. "We should go. Day will break soon." Auron watched Jecht turn off the recorder and stuff it in among his things, and they turned to head pointedly away from the Temple.

They turned back a little when they heard a tiny 'omf!' behind them, and stared at their small follower. Yuna had her pink pack held before her, and was stumbling down the High Road towards them. Her very sleepy watcher was just starting up behind her, calling her name gently.

She tripped over her pack, and stumbled, making that small sound again. Braska jumped a little, and hurried towards her. Jecht sniggered under his breath, watching the young father picking up his daughter and hugging her gently.

"Ah, Braska. Don't coddle the kid; she'll end up soft!" Braska wasn't listening, but inspecting Yuna like some tiny porcelain doll.

Yuna finally proclaimed, as she grabbed her father's headdress, "I'm coming too, daddy!"

"Yuna . . ." His eyes were sad, but hers were firm, meeting his gaze evenly. Auron smiled a little, and thought that she would make a very strong woman one day. But today would not be that day.

Her watcher stopped at Braska's shoulder, and took Yuna from her father. The little girl did not scream, or reach for her father, but stared at him with those same sad eyes. Braska kissed his fingertips, and applied them softly to his daughter's forehead, before turning his back to her and striding away.

As he passed Jecht, he said simply, "See what I mean?"

* * *

Braska inspected a map idly as Auron tried to explain to Jecht why he needed a weapon of _some_ sort during the pilgrimage. The man was positively maddening, so firm and set with his resolve that he could defend with his fists alone—there was a boastful story, which Auron suspected Jecht had created on the spot, of defending his wife from seven thugs single-handedly.

After a while of arguing with the older man, Auron threw up his arms in aggravation, and strode away, darkly snarling, "Fine! Do whatever you damn well please. But _I_'ll not be the one to spare a Potion for you when some fiend decides to take a bite out of your—."

"Gentlemen?" Braska was smiling softly, his hip a little cocked. His calm attitude defused Auron's frustrations almost immediately; he settled instead for shifting his sword at his hip and his pack across his shoulders. "If we're prepared?"

He turned away then, and Auron dutifully strode behind his summoner, his eyes carefully downcast as though he was some chastised youth. Jecht bumped his shoulder from behind, and strode a couple of steps ahead of him.

Red eyes darted back at him, and then up to Braska. A dark brow shot towards Jecht's hairline, and he smirked a little, thumbing at his nose. Auron felt his cheeks heat a little, and sneered at the implicating glance he was receiving.

They walked in silence for some time, along the stretch of road between Bevelle and Macalania. The frigid wind barked at their exposed skin. Auron watched Jecht as the time dragged on, taking in his increasing unease with their lack of conversation.

He finally broke, tossing his arms up and then cradling the back of his head. "So, Braska. Where're we headed, anyway? I mean, besides south."

"Well, we have to head quite some way, until we get to Djose. That's fairly far south. Then we head to Luca, and the islands of Kilika and Besaid. After that, we head back north to Bevelle, and then on to the end of the pilgrimage."

"That's Zanarkand, right?" Braska nodded without looking at Jecht. The man chortled a little, and shook his head. "It's gonna be great to get home."

"Anxious to see your child?" Jecht's laugh was harsher, a bit more rueful and brutal.

"My wife, really. I mean . . . I wanna see Tidus, but the kid's such a pansy . . ." He shrugged a little, then laughingly said, "I think my Tidus and your little girl would get along pretty keen. They're both a little slow on the up-take."

Braska looked over at Jecht, offense sparkling in his eyes. "Yuna isn't slow."

"Tidus is." But there was a smile in his voice, which Auron couldn't see. He supposed it was a little feral and unsettling. Suddenly, Jecht shivered violently, and shook his head. "Crap, it's cold 'round here. Isn't it summer or somethin'?"

* * *

Auron had been to Macalania once, during his training. The fiends were hard in the ethereal forest, and had shown themselves almost as soon as their trio had stepped within the weald.

Jecht hissed as Auron shoved another Potion at him, grumbling under his breath a little. He was still bleeding in a couple of places, but the light green liquid had done wonders for most of the major wounds.

"Sir Braska and I _both_ told you to get a weapon, you stubborn—." Jecht shot him a withering little glare, and downed this fourth Potion. He pulled a little face at the taste of it, and handed the bottle back.

"Kid, I don't need you babying me." Auron bristled a little, his fists clenching. He looked around the clearing a little, trying to distract himself from the suddenly overwhelming urge to pound in Jecht's face, and sighed as Braska strode up. It had been foolish, of course, to send their Summoner back to the Macalania Inn alone, but somebody had to sit around with Jecht and make sure the idiot didn't manage to kill himself.

Braska handed over a High-Potion, and leaned against his staff as Jecht swallowed the contents of that bottle as well.

"Gah, ya'd think they'd make these things taste better."

"It's probably to discourage people from getting injured." Braska was swaying slightly in his spot, staring into the middle-distance. Auron sprung to his feet, oblivious to the look Jecht was giving them both, and grabbed Braska's shoulder gently.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"Fine, fine. Just a little tired."

"Should we go back to the inn—." Braska shook his head a little, and straightened. He smiled breathlessly, and assured Auron that he'd be fine, that they should keep moving. Auron slowly nodded, and grabbed his things.

Jecht strode behind them, and Auron was only half aware of those red eyes watching him and Braska both.

Braska spoke softly: "When we get to the Thunder Plains, we'll have to move through pretty quickly. But we should probably get you a weapon of some sort while we're there, Jecht."

"Yeah, sure." He didn't sound terribly keen on the idea, and Auron suspected that perhaps in Jecht's home, he'd spoken true about fighting thugs off with only his fist (though Auron more suspected he'd fight them off with his sheer imposition). Any sudden transition to a weapon was bound to be a little unsettling.

He strode back towards Jecht as he unbuckled his sword, and shoved the weapon into the man's hands. A dark brow rose skeptically at him; he shrugged.

"I'm stronger than you are, and you might as well get used to a sword now, rather than later."

"Who said I'd wanna use a sword—?"

"Your choices are rather limited," Auron pointed out brusquely, and stepped back up to stand at Braska's shoulder. Braska smiled a little, almost thankfully it seemed, and Auron ducked his head, shrugging his shoulders absently.

The winding pathways within Macalania gave way, over what felt like ages, to the vast stretch of the Thunder Plain's perpetually scorched earth. They stood on the edge of it, looking out over the expanse and from lightning tower to lightning tower.

"This is somethin'," Jecht commented idly. He was balancing Auron's sword on his shoulder, staring around at the bleak landscape.

"Come on. It's not that far to the inn." Braska gestured into the middle-distance, and they struck off from the withering edge of the forest.

The lightning and thunder, crashing around them, reduced their meager directions to vague gestures and emphatically shared exasperated looks. Jecht, being the tallest and with Auron's sword hefted as it was, seemed perfectly oblivious to the strikes quickly raining down around them.

It took them nearly an hour of lightning-dodging before they reached the inn. Auron huffed a sigh of relief, and leaned against a structural support of the building, staring back the way they'd come. It didn't seem that far, from the inn.

Auron started as Jecht tossed the sphere-recorder at him, and blinked stupidly. It took him a minute to switch the damn thing on, and focus it on their surroundings. By then, Jecht was standing at Braska's side, looking around idly.

He turned back to see what Auron was doing, and cringed a little. "Hey! Hold it steady."

"Why am I doing this?" Auron grumbled, and switched it off. Jecht stepped over, and took it, messing with it for a minute. As he played with the contraption, Auron strode to Braska's side. His hands were suddenly once more filled with the recorder, and he shot a venomous glare at Jecht.

He looked back at Braska, taking in his somber expression and distant eyes. "What do you see there, my Lord?"

Braska started out of his stupor, and looked over at Auron. "Oh. I was just . . . thinking."

"This is important; no foolin' around!" Jecht snarled, waving around at the vast expanse. Auron rolled his eyes, looking over at him. "You're gonna spoil it."

There was a sudden flash of lightning, surprisingly close, and Jecht gruntedin surprise. Braska stepped over quickly, Auron a step behind him, suddenly very intent with the recorder.

"Are you alright?" Braska asked.

With a vindictive little smile, Auron observed, "Now there's a scene for prosperity!"

"Yeah, yeah," Jecht grumbled, climbing to his feet. He snatched the recorder away as Auron shut it off, and stuffed it back in among his things. With a stretch, he turned back to Braska, and asked, "Are we staying here?"

"That'd be best, I suppose. We can rest, and get you a weapon before we leave in the morning."

"Yeah, sure." He shrugged, his hands tucked behind his head. His eyes were a little unfocused as they darted between Auron and Braska, and Auron tried to ignore the heavy stare on his back as they stepped into the inn.

An elderly woman beamed at them energetically, and welcomed them to the inn. Her voice was coarse from years of talking over the incessant thunder, but kind. Braska smiled at her gently, paid for their room, and then disappeared back out the door.

Auron placed the care of his things with Jecht, threatening him with a glance instead of words, and then stepped out onto the plains to find out what was worrying Braska.

The young Summoner was sitting a few feet off from the inn, his headdress removed and placed at his feet. His dark brown hair waved in the breeze coming from the east, swaying around his face slightly as he stared off into the middle-distance once more.

"Sir Braska?"

He looked up, startled, and smiled slightly as he patted the hardened earth at his hip. Auron settled beside him quietly, crossing his legs and keeping his gaze intent on Braska's profile.

He didn't speak for some time, but smiled softly when he did.

"I met my wife in this inn." Auron only half-noted that Braska spoke of the woman as though she were still alive. His smile was gentle and nostalgic, his fingers combing through the loose soil he'd managed to work up from the ground. "I was traveling from Luca to Bevelle. She was with a group of her friends and family, to Guadosalam, if I remember right. We were both very young then—this was some years before we met again, and many more years before married."

"This place reminds you of her?" Braska shrugged a little. His eyes were sadder than they had been when they had left Bevelle.

"I wonder," he murmured.

"Sir?"

"I wonder if the Al Bhed's souls arrive in the Farplane as well." Auron stared at Braska's profile for a moment, taking in the soft anguish hidden beneath his firm resolve. With a shy and shaking palm, he touched Braska's shoulder gently, squeezing in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

Braska smiled nostalgically, chuckled at himself. "I'm rambling, aren't I? You should head back in, get yourself settled in our room."

"Will you . . . be alright, sir?"

"I should be."

Auron nodded, and slowly stood. He wasn't convinced that Braska would be alright, but he wasn't going to contest the point.

His hand tingled slightly, where it had curled on Braska's shoulder. The inn was surprisingly quiet, considering the perpetual storm roaring around them. He sighed, and strode down the hall to their room. Doubt at leaving Braska alone gripped him as he spotted the door to their room, and he nearly started back.

"Hey."

Auron looked over at Jecht, and tried to stifle the annoyance that bubbled in his chest. He shook his head a little, and ducked into his collar protectively, moving to step around the larger man. Jecht grabbed his arm, tugged at him.

"Not now, Jecht," he grumbled.

"What the hell's up with _you_?" the dark, scarred man growled. His breath was hot and smelt of alcohol, making Auron lean away and scowl up at him.

"Let me go," he demanded. Jecht shook his arm a bit, leaning in a bit closer. The hall felt tight with Jecht leaning that close, the door suddenly cold through his jacket and shirt, against his back. Suddenly, Jecht leered a little, his eyes trailing over Auron for a moment.

"You been spendin' a lotta time with Braska," were his coarse words, almost accusing. Auron bristled.

"I am his Guardian." Jecht let out a barking little laugh. His free hand was on the doorknob that was digging into Auron's back; his flesh was warm through the fabric of his jacket and shirt as well, and he arched away from the light brush.

"Still . . . that's a lotta time ta spend, just lookin' at him." He laughed again, and jangled the knob against Auron's back a little. "You stare at him a _lot_, Auron . . ."

"Shut up," Auron snarled up at the older man. Jecht leered down at him, and laughed again; Auron flinched at the smell of alcohol on his breath, and leaned heavily against the door. It gave in as Jecht turned the knob, and Auron stumbled back into the room, barely catching himself before he fell. He glared at Jecht as the man slammed the door shut behind him and leered at him through the darkness.

"Did I hit a nerve, kid? Bit sensitive about havin' the hots for the boss?"

"Shut up, I told you!" He made a lunge at Jecht, not sure whether he was going to strangle the man or hit him or just knock him to the ground and run off to some seclusion.

Whatever he was going to do, it was halted. Jecht's knee came up in a harsh, practiced movement and caught Auron in the stomach. His breath rushed out of him, and he groaned as Jecht grabbed his shoulders, whirled him, and pressed him harshly to the door.

He was gasping for breath, and finding only the hot, fetid exhale from Jecht's too-close mouth. From the short distance, he glared up at the man with vengeful eyes, promising an undeniable pain, just as soon as the feeling came back to his extremities.

But, as before, he never got the chance. Jecht was perhaps too close, too quickly, and Auron was not quite sure what do to when one did _that_ with their tongue. His fingers flexed at the wood beneath them, and his eyes widened, perhaps comically, and stayed as such, even when Jecht pulled away, one brow cocked.

"Ya know," Jecht growled, his voice huskier and deeper than normal, "you're supposed to kiss _back_."

Auron snarled at him, struggled against the hold on his shoulders, lashed out with legs and arms that could barely move from the weight of Jecht against him. Jecht just growled back at him, his hands harsh and hot and tight, his thumbs tracing at his shirt and his skin and . . . and perhaps that didn't feel too bad, to have Jecht lean in that way, though his breath was still unpleasant against Auron's mouth.

But suddenly, Jecht let out a barking laugh. He pulled back with such violence, his hands still on Auron's shoulders, that Auron fell to the ground when he was released, staring up at Jecht incredulously as the older man opened the door, and left without a word.

At the end of the hall, Braska stood, looking worried and confused. Jecht passed him, slowing slightly as his eyes darted over the Summoner, before he continued on with a quiet curse and shake of the head.

Braska hurried down the hall to their room, approaching it just as Auron left, straightening himself idly. He reached for the young warrior-monk, but pulled his hand back as the dark haired young man flinched a little and blinked at him.

"I think . . . I'd like a separate room, Lord Braska?"

"Of course, Auron," Braska whispered, and watched as Auron stepped around him and strode, almost as one dead, down the hall towards the reception desk. "Of course."

* * *

There was no mention of the incident, or implication as to Jecht's reasoning behind his assault. Auron wasn't sure if he was thankful for the ignorance, or frustrated beyond belief.

They stayed in Guadosalam for a full day, and then continued south, towards the Moonflow. Auron became ever cautious of Jecht's drinking binges, and carefully arranged himself so he was rarely in the older man's company.

He was not unsettled so much by the brusque advance itself, so much as his reaction to the entire ordeal. From an early age, he had been trained to be a stoic pillar of strength, be it for a Summoner or simply for the military. Yet four days' travel with two other men—one of whom he was finding increasingly repulsive—and his resolve was swiftly becoming threadbare in his tenuous grasp.

Jecht grew quickly enamored of his new sword, and grew quite good with the weapon, in so short a time. He was a formidable fighter, and Auron supposed that had something to do with the frustration and anger roiling beneath his boastful exterior. Then again, it was that same frustration and anger that drove Jecht to the bottle nearly every night they stayed at an inn.

Braska attempted to get him to speak about his malcontent. Jecht only smiled and laughed it off, before springing to the forefront the next time they were ambushed by fiends.

Auron stretched widely as they followed the path towards the Moonflow docks. The forest edging them in towards the river was breathtakingly familiar, and Auron was thankful for that. It had been nearly two decades since he'd passed through the area last, but everything held the same peaceful, effervescent quality it had during his vague and distant childhood.

He stared out across the river with his arms crossed over his chest, and sighed softly. The pyreflies swarmed over the water, and a few curled around his ankles listlessly on their journey skyward. When this was over, he'd like to come back to the Moonflow, to his family home some miles beyond it. That would be a peaceful existence, suiting for a former Guardian.

There was a sudden commotion up ahead, closer to the docks, and Auron thought he could distinctly pick out Jecht's voice above the general rabble. With a groan of despair, he buried his head in his hands, and then jogged off to see what the idiot had done _this_ time.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Auron stood over Jecht with his sphere-recorder for some time before the larger man cruelly snarled, "What're you shooting _me_ for?"

"So you don't do anything stupid again." Jecht rolled his eyes a little, and Auron growled down at him, peering at him over the recorder. "I can't believe you attacked that shoopuf. Sir Braska had to pay the handler out of his own travel money—."

"I said I was sorry," Jecht grumbled, cradling the back of his head. "It's never gonna happen again. I promise."

"Oh, a promise?" Auron scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Which you'll forget come tomorrow!"

Braska touched Auron's shoulder gently, calming his growing rage. "Auron, please. He did apologize. He knows he was wrong."

Jecht stood, brushing past them both. Auron followed his movement with the recorder, his gaze angry and intent. He was quiet for some time, looking out over the river, and finally whirled back to glare at Auron a little vindictively.

"That's it. Only thing I drink from now on is Shoopuf milk."

Braska watched him for a moment; Auron could hear the skepticism in his voice. "You're sure?"

Jecht threw up his arms in aggravation. "We're on a journey to fight Sin and save Spira, right? If I keep screwin' up and . . . making a fool of myself—. My wife and kid are never gonna forgive me."

"That's on record." Jecht sneered at Auron a little.

Auron watched Jecht critically for a moment, as he shut off the recorder, and tossed it back to the other man. Jecht caught it without really looking at Auron, and tucked it back in among his things. His red eyes were a little distant and pained, and Auron could only hope that, this time, Jecht would keep his promise.

They traveled, their pace languid, and came upon Djose a few days after the incident at the Moonflow. Near Djose, Braska detoured to visit a relative—an uncle or cousin of some sort, who was quite a bit older than he was—and spoke with young men and women he'd known when he was younger. The Temple was mostly quiet, and the cloisters seemed devilishly easy, compared to Macalania's.

After they had acquired the aeon of Djose, they loitered in the temple for several days. Braska deserved the break, and Auron wasn't about to complain. But Jecht was antsy, always up and around, and barely sleeping.

As Braska rested on their fourth night in Djose, Auron abandoned his feigned sleep, and stalked Jecht out onto the balcony outside their shared room. The older man had his back to the railing, and was shivering slightly.

He demanded, without opening his eyes to look at Auron, "What d'ya want, kid?"

"Why do you insist on calling me that, 'kid'? I'm almost as old as Braska and yourself." His voice was a stage-whisper hiss of vindication. Jecht opened one eye and peered at him skeptically, sighing gently. He looked up at the sky and stared at the stars for a while.

"They aren't the same here."

"What?" Jecht pointed at the stars vaguely.

"They aren't the same here as they were on the beach near Bevelle. That's where I washed up, ya know? But they aren't the same here."

"Well, we've moved south." Auron looked up at the sky himself. "It's a different expanse. The lights are dimmer here as well. They—Jecht?"

The older man was watching him intently over his arms, crossed over his knees as they were. Auron flushed a little under the scrutiny.

Quietly, Jecht sighed, and buried his face in his arms. His voice was a little muffled. "Look, uh . . . I'm sorry. About that whole thing in the Thunder Plains. I was drunk."

"I know," Auron groused, and then swore under his breath. "What I mean is—. I mean—. Uh. Don't worry about it . . . ?"

"Well, I'm worryin'." He looked back up at Auron, and frowned a little. "It's not like I was doin' all that on purpose just to piss you off or something. I mean . . . look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to offend you or nothin'."

"You didn't offend me, Jecht. Just . . ." Auron suspected if he ran with his mouth he'd only prove to insinuate and embarrass himself. He stopped his rebuttal of Jecht's apology. "You're forgiven though, if it eases your conscience."

"It does," Jecht grumped, and was tucked back behind his arms again. Auron looked out over the quiet darkness surrounding Djose, and sighed softly, leaning against the railing.

He was dimly aware of the precarious nature of his slightly wanton pose, but chose to ignore it. On any other night he likely would have straightened the instant he'd fallen into the stance. But that night, he was tired and stressed, and the stretch to his back felt nice.

He started when he felt Jecht behind him, and whirled until his back was to the railing. Jecht was peering at him with a strange intensity, his hands suddenly on either side of Auron's hips, pinning him to his spot.

"Ya know," Jecht observed, cocking a brow towards his hairline, "most guys . . . ya kiss 'em, and they deck you."

"Speaking from personal experience?" Jecht nodded, abandoning the pretense of the boastful rogue for a more honest face. Auron flushed a little—more frustrated than angry, though he refused to delude himself to the idea that he had _wanted_ to be Jecht's first and only man.

"I'm just saying . . ." Jecht was leaning in awfully close, all of a sudden, though his eyes never broke from Auron. "Just saying that—."

From their room, Braska gave a husky, tired grumble of, "Auron? Jecht?" Auron ducked under Jecht's arm as he pulled away, and hurried back into the room immediately.

He didn't want to think about the embarrassed heat on his cheeks.

* * *

The inn on the Mi'ihen Highroad was owned by Al Bhed, as were many of the inns on the path of a Summoner's pilgrimage. Auron no longer thought this an odd thing, though he could admit to being slightly unsettled when some set of darkly intent, swirling green eyes darted to him. They rested languidly for the night; Auron found he couldn't sleep, laying in the dark and listening to the soft breathing of Braska and the occasional abrupt snort or snore from Jecht.

In the morning, Auron was the last to leave their room. Jecht was leaning against the front desk, smiling and obviously flirting with a young Al Bhed woman with a thousand braids and eyes so dark they seemed nearly black. Braska was standing to one side, speaking with an older man who looked harried and bothersome.

Auron addressed that situation first and foremost.

"Sir Braska?" The Summoner turned, and smiled fleetingly at Auron. He gestured to the older Al Bhed gently.

"Ah, Auron. I was just being told by Dr-"—he faltered, furrowed his brow, and tried again—"Drate—."

"Dratajem," the Al Bhed offered quietly; he was smiling a little at the Summoner's inability to say the foreign name. Auron held in a flush and light groan.

"Ah, thank you, yes. _Dratajem_ was telling me that they've been having a problem with a fiend near here."

"A . . . fiend, sir?" Auron wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know where this was going, but was pretty sure he already did. The wizened Al Bhed nodded emphatically, and sprang into a long and detailed description of the horrendous sin spawn and its deeds against the chocobo housed at the inn.

Auron had a sudden, overwhelming urge to retreat to the room they so freshly vacated, crawl under the bed, and never come out again, if it meant avoiding an unnecessary battle. He was just hypothesizing the best way to retreat from the situation when Jecht's arm, crooked and heavy, landed on his shoulder.

"We've got time, don't we? What'll it hurt?"

Braska was giving Jecht an expression that he should have earned weeks ago in the prison at Bevelle. The wizened Al Bhed beamed thankfully at Jecht, and touched Braska's shoulder gently, his eyes just one side of desperately pleading. Far be it from Braska to turn down the obvious need of a stranger.

Auron had a sudden, overwhelming urge to beat Braska over the head into unconsciousness, and drag him to Luca, simply to avoid the entire situation. He sighed, and shrugged his unoccupied shoulder.

"Jecht is right, Sir Braska. It would be in good service as well—."

"We'll see what we can do," Braska offered. They abandoned their things near the door, and stepped into the clearing outside the inn. Auron thought he could hear Braska muttering something about a waste of time. He started as Jecht suddenly pitched the sphere-recorder at him, smirking a little and giving him a thumbs-up; he obligingly turned the damn thing on.

Braska strode out from the inn a little, turned back, and looked over the area skeptically. He had one thin brow cocked a little. "A giant fiend that attacks chocobos . . ."

"Hmph. What's it waiting for?" Auron cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, "Hey! Come out and fight!"

"I told you this was a waste of time," Braska muttered. Still, he was holding his staff loosely in his hand, ready to summon one of his powerful aeons at a moment's notice. Auron glanced between them, wondering over the subtle shift of their demeanors.

Jecht grinned winningly at Braska. "Hey, come on! It's the right thing to do! Everyone's depending on us." Braska approached him slowly, now looking around with a bit more intent. Auron could feel his hackles beginning to rise. That grin on Jecht's face became a somewhat feral snarl. "Besides, it's good practice."

"I guess you're right," Braska admitted. He was watching off up the road, back north, towards the Mushroom Rock road. "Well then . . ."

There was a sudden crash of motion. Before Auron could think, the recorder was out of his hands, replaced with his sword, and his ambient disbelief had shifted to a primal drive to simply _protect._

The ugly thing was there, snarling and reeking like some long dead thing. Auron stared at it blindly for a moment, his sword slackening in his grip for a split second.

Jecht's voice brought him back. "There it is! Auron! Let's get 'im." There was a smile in his voice, a vindictive blood lust and that same overwhelming urge to protect their Summoner. At once, they were Guardians. Auron smiled a little.

"Right!"

* * *

It was some days later that they arrived in Luca. Auron had never thought himself much for the hearty gaming town, but he let himself be swayed by a little bit of the maniac energy that swarmed the streets when they arrived off the Mi'ihen Highroad.

Braska streamed off to the Temple, and admonished both Auron and Jecht to indulge in their wilder sides for a while. For Jecht, that apparently meant finding the closest gambling ring and subjecting himself to a firm losing streak; for Auron, that included taking his sword to the weapons' shop to be properly adjusted, and then ducking into a bar for a few hours.

Auron wasn't a heavy drinker. The clergy had frowned on any excess indulgence, and Auron had never really seen why alcohol was such a joy for most of the commoners. Now, as life was slipping away with the pilgrimage, Auron was beginning to understand.

He drank. Not heavily, but enough to dull the senses a little. So it didn't surprise him too much when Jecht managed to sneak up on him in the street.

"Whoa there, kid. Let's get you back to the inn, huh? Shit." His hand was hot on his waist, his body firm as Auron allowed himself to be guided to their inn.

The three of them had a large suite, practically fit for a king, and three decently sized beds instead of the two—or, even more likely, _one_—they had been getting used to. Jecht leaned Auron against the headboard of one bed, lifting his feet onto the mattress and removing his heavy boots.

As he came up to work off Auron's jacket, the younger man batted his hands off, grabbed his face, and kissed him firmly upon the mouth. Jecht stood stalk-still after they broke, and blinked stupidly at Auron.

He growled drunkenly, "That's what you get for not doing things properly at Djose."

"Eh?"

Auron looked away, crossing his arms over his chest and brooding pointedly—well, perhaps not brooding. Pouting was probably a better term for the petulant frown marring his still-young features. Jecht sat on the edge of the bed, and didn't say anything, waiting for Auron to explain.

Auron spoke a bit more clearly then. "okay, it's more for pissing me off in the Thunder Plains with your comment about me having the—being attracted to Braska."

"But you _are_ attracted to Braska," Jecht pointed out needlessly. Auron blushed, and smacked Jecht upside the fool head. Jecht actually fell off the bed, and clutched his head as he hissed and grumbled and swore. "What was that for?"

"Whether I'm attracted to Lord Braska or not is nothing for _you_ to worry over, you insufferable, incorrigible, nosy, Yevon-forsaken, horny old _goat_!"

Jecht was silent, staring at Auron for some time, before he snorted, and leaned up towards the younger man.

"Did you just call me a horny old goat?" Auron grumbled, and returned to his 'brooding'. He crossed his ankles, and then drew his knees up to his chest. He suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to hide under the blankets and cry.

Jecht climbed onto the bed again, and knelt at Auron's feet, staring at him insistently. Auron rolled his eyes, and pushed at his side with one foot.

"Oh, leave me alone, Jecht. Haven't you done _enough_?"

"What have I done?" Jecht complained, then thought about it, and shrugged. "okay, besides the obvious stupid crap."

"Just go _away_." Auron leaned forward and shoved at Jecht's shoulders. Jecht grabbed his wrists, and tugged at him a little; Auron tugged back, growling under his breath darkly. "Damnit, Jecht, why can't you just go away?"

"Don't you think I wish I could?" Jecht grumbled. He shook Auron a little, and sneered at him. "But I can't. I'm stuck with you and Braska until I can hightail back to Zanarkand. So if you've got a beef with me—."

"Just go away!" Auron bemoaned, managing one hand free and socking Jecht right in the jaw. Jecht wasn't a Blitzer for nothing; he took the punch, grabbed Auron's wrist again, and wrestled over control with him until he had the smaller man pinned to the mattress.

"What's your beef, damnit?"

"It would've been easier without you!" Auron snarled, his face a mask of ugly self-betrayal and loathing. "If you weren't here, I could have just ignored it, you know? But you had to show up, and come with us, and point it out! And now . . ."

"Now _what_, Auron?" Jecht demanded, shaking Auron a little.

"Now I can't stop thinking about it!" He was crying, he knew, but he didn't really care. He swore, and slammed his head back against the forgiving mattress, relaxing in Jecht's hold a little. For a little while, he simply cried, until he could pull together the coherence to tense and lash out once more.

"I don't want to think about that," he snarled, managing to rear up a little and get right into Jecht's face. "I _can't_. And you just keep reminding me—."

Jecht kissed him. Auron shut up, his hands going slack in their fists and his mouth opening heedlessly. It was not a good kiss, by any stretch, but it was something anyway. Something different then the hurried, brutal affair back on the Thunder Plains, or the nearly tender expression shared at Djose.

The door to their suite opened. Jecht didn't stop kissing him until the door shut. He pulled back then, and shoved Auron onto the bed, where he choked and hiccoughed on a sob, twisting to look towards the door.

Braska was looking between them skeptically, and quietly asked, "Jecht? What happened to your jaw?"

"Auron's a mean drunk," he excused, and straightened himself out swiftly. "I'm going for a walk."

* * *

Auron returned from a jaunt before their ship docked, and joggled a few spheres one handed, quickly discerning a blank one and slipping it into the recorder. He was scanning the dock without even thinking about it by the time he heard Jecht's voice.

"Hey, Auron! Did you get that last match?"

He turned, frowned a little, and grumbled, "Yeah," tossing the required sphere at Jecht, who caught it easily and turned it over in his hands. "But I don't understand why you wanted me to. Didn't you say you have Blitzball in your Zanarkand?"

Jecht was more intent on the sphere than Auron's words, but still snorted a little. "Not a sportsman, are ya?"

"Working on your form?" Braska asked, sounding almost half interested. Jecht snorted again, looking over at the Summoner.

"My form don't need no work. I'm the great Jecht!" He didn't sound as boastful as his words might assume him to be. He was staring at the sphere as he wandered towards Braska. "It's for my kid."

"Your son plays Blitzball?" Braska asked. Jecht stood face to face with him, and Auron simply watched over the edge of the sphere recorder. He felt strangely detached from the entire situation, like he should leave the two fathers to their business and mind his own.

"Yeah, and he wants to beat his old man bad." He chuckled a little, and recounted, "Once, I told him to give it up. He didn't speak to me for a week." Then, Jecht became very quiet, staring into the distance like Braska often did, as though somewhere out on the ocean he could see his wife and son, and his Zanarkand. "Wonder what he's doing now. I hope he got bigger and put on some muscle."

He strode off, and it was with half a mind that Auron turned and followed him a little, catching just a hint of a sniffle before he whirled and snarled, "Hey, what's the big idea? Stop shootin'."

Auron, with a small hum of misunderstanding, turned the recorder off, handing it over to Jecht. He snatched it away, and stuffed it in among his things.

Braska called to them as the ship pulled up to dock.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Auron was dimly aware, about ten minutes after leaving the port at Luca, that the trip to Kilika was going to make him violently ill. He demurely abandoned himself, therefore, to the inner hold of the S.S Winno, and tried not to think of anything that would upset his sympathetic stomach.

Unfortunately, the location did nothing for his seasickness. He lay in the bed with the porthole covered and groaned lightly, his arms cast over his eyes as he fought down the nausea that curdled with every sway and heave of the ship. Surely the ships shouldn't have been so unstable; that had to be hideously dangerous for the passengers.

He tried to think of better things than this. Bevelle ranked high among them: a life led in quiet and peaceful ambiance away from the waterfront and holed carefully away in the cloister. In a perfect world, he'd not have lost his candidature to Kinoc, and would be sitting nicely as second-in-command of the warrior monks.

With a violent heave of the ocean, Auron remembered that it was most assuredly _not_ a 'perfect world'.

The door to their small, shared room opened with a hideous bang and rattle—more because of the sway of the ship than any real violence—and Auron peered between his arms in order to shoot a half-mustered glare at Jecht.

"What do _you_ want?" he groused, but it came out as more of a pitiful whine. Jecht gabbed his hand to Auron's complaint, and sprawled listlessly on one of the other thin hammocks in their room. Auron decided he'd best reassess his acceptance of the dark man; he was far too at ease with this entire matter.

"Braska wanted me ta check in on ya. Make sure you weren't gonna drown in your own puke." The crudity belied the affection Auron was beginning to associate with the older man—Jecht might have been a callous, brute, uncouth letch, but he was a loyal one, and for a Guardian, it was the loyalty that mattered in the long run.

"I'm fine," Auron assured, but didn't move. Moving only added to the horror of his twisted gut. Jecht watched him critically for a moment, before sighing. He swung in his hammock, before standing, and settling onto Auron's instead. "Hey! Jecht—."

"Oh, qui'cher whinin'. Sheesh. You're as bad as my kid." Auron recoiled a little from Jecht's sudden proximity, and flushed, but didn't trust his legs to support him if he sprung away from the older man. Jecht's claret eyes watched him from close range; his breath wafted over Auron's mouth and nose as a calming, rhythmic humidity. It calmed his tumultuous stomach a little.

Jecht softly explained, "My wife was from further inland, in Zanarkand. I grew up on the beach and all. When we got married, she used to get sick every time she'd try to go to sleep in the boat—."

"You lived in a boat?"

"A houseboat, like they got in Kilika, from what Braska an' the crew's been sayin'. Anyway, I used to do this for her. Calm her stomach right down." Auron huffed indignantly, being compared to the other man's wife. However, his deep and even breathing was distracting him from the arrhythmic beat of the ocean against the ship. The hammock even seemed to be swaying more in time with Jecht's echoing heartbeat than with the sea's pulse.

Auron lulled within a hazy half-sleeping state, and sprung to consciousness only when he felt the soft brush of wind- and sea salt-chapped lips brush against his cheek. He turned towards that caress gently, and murmured something that, later, he could not quite remember.

Jecht chuckled a little ruefully at it though, and Auron suspected that, in his daze, he might have muttered Braska's name. At the time, though, he didn't really care what he had muttered. The warm weight of Jecht pressed to his side was a welcome one; and with his gentle rhythms, the sickness was beginning to alleviate.

The ship gave a sudden, violent heave, and Auron was saved from tumbling to the deck only by Jecht bracing him in. There was that husky chuckle again, right next to his ear, and Auron tried not to flush. He hoped Braska wouldn't walk in, for their rather compromising position would be one hard thing to explain away with light words and Jecht's rogue charm.

That rogue charm, Auron had a feeling, was about to get them into trouble, if he let it.

Jecht's breathing was a little less rhythmic against the back of Auron's neck, sending fitful shivers down his spine and making the short hairs all over his body stand on end. His thick arm, cast as it was over Auron's hip, tightened a little, and the free one was doing a quick job of removing the tie in his hair.

He shifted and grunted a little when Jecht kissed the back of his neck, and vindictively asked, "Did you comfort your wife like _this_ as well?"

"Nah," Jecht assured. He then amended, "We had an actual bed, not a hammock."

"Get off me, Jecht."

"You like it," the dark man breathed on the back of his neck, just above the collar of his top. Auron shifted minutely—neither closer to nor away from the other man—and huffed a little, shaking his head. He groaned in anguish at the movement, and clamped his eyes shut.

Jecht rocked into him, a more natural movement than the sway of the boat. Auron gasped a little, and glared over his shoulder at his fellow Guardian.

"Braska—."

"—is busy on deck, placatin' the crew." Auron hadn't known Jecht knew a word like 'placating', let alone how to use it properly. His mild awe was washed away as Jecht shifted against him again; there was no mistaking his movements for a readjustment now. He flushed darkly, and buried his face between his arms and the canvas of the hammock. "C'mon. It'll keep your mind off the sea for a while."

Jecht's hand was sliding southbound along his spine, and was hot through the heavy silk of his coat and the tight-knit linen of his shirt. Auron swore under his breath, trying to keep his body still and his breath even. He didn't really want this, not badly enough to let Jecht see him want it.

As the hand came to the small of his back, pressing him into a slight arch, his hair came fully undone. The ship gave a grand heave, and even Jecht's blitzer strong arm couldn't keep Auron on the hammock. They both tumbled to the deck; Jecht chuckled, his body strewn over Auron, and slowly levered onto his palms to stare down at the aggravated and slightly green warrior monk.

He kissed him, barely less brutal than that first time on the Thunder Plains, and let his hand dive for the belt that held the red jacket closed. Auron batted at his hands fruitlessly, groaning and grunting his protests even as he allowed the accost of his mouth. The pounding of the surf was throbbing in his ears—or perhaps that was now his heartbeat, beginning to race as Jecht managed to open his jacket and slide a hand under his shirt.

Auron supposed Jecht had once been a breathtaking man, before Blitz had scarred his face and age had begun to worry lines into his skin. Still, when he smiled tenderly and fleetingly, his eyes half lidded and the scruff of his face catching just a sliver of light from somewhere—the porthole, or the doorway, or perhaps something else—Auron supposed he could see a bit of that very young man who had married and had a child in a Zanarkand he knew nothing about.

Jecht's hands were rough, but no more rough than he had expected, even against the soft, naked flesh of his thighs; and they were textured, not brutal, for which Auron was a trifle thankful, though he'd never say as such. The wood of the deck, biting into the small of his back, was more irritating than Jecht's weathered hands catching on his skin and the hair of his legs. He shivered, and couldn't place whether it was because of the randomly recurring nausea, or the brutally passionate look Jecht shot his way as he demonstrated just how he could 'keep Auron's mind off the sea'.

"Stop," Auron grumbled, pushing at Jecht's shoulders. And the older man did, though one hand stayed at the bend in Auron's knee and the other supported his weight, planted beside Auron's ribcage. He shook his head a little.

"If I stop, you're gonna get sick again," Jecht pointed out. Auron shook his head, pushed at Jecht with the leg that wasn't held.

"I'll get sick if you keep doing that," he protested, pushing a bit more firmly. Jecht backed off, fixed his clothing as Auron fumbled with his own.

When his trembling fingers continued to refuse to cooperate, Jecht made swift work of righting Auron's slacks and jacket, and even tied his hair back after lifting him from the deck and depositing him back on the hammock. Auron shoved him away.

"Don't coddle me, damnit," he groused, laying back and holding his stomach this time. He knew Jecht was watching him, and swung out at him desperately. "Leave me alone."

"Yeah. Sure. Just don't drown in your own puke."

When the door slammed shut, Auron knew it was because of violence and not the sway of the ocean. He sobbed a little, and tried to ignore the throbbing in his lower gut.

* * *

Kilika was a small, rural island to the south of mainland Spira. Except for the Kilika Temple, there was not much reason to come to the island—their commerce was lackluster at the best of times, with Sin constantly battering its shore; and their Blitzball team wasn't much to speak of either—but it was a nice retreat, especially after the hustle-bustle of Luca.

Auron stretched, and fell back onto the bed he had claimed his own as soon as they'd hit solid ground and sequestered themselves. They were on a houseboat, much to Auron's chagrin, but the motion was far more subtle; he supposed that, given time, he could get used to the movement and be nearly presentable by the time they loaded onto the S.S Liki to head the last leg south to the Isle of Besaid.

"Are you feeling better?"

He started up, and nodded a little to Braska's question, rubbing the back of his neck. Braska nodded thankfully, and settled onto his own bed, across from Auron's. They were silent for some time.

Finally, Braska sighed and removed his headdress. He ran a hand through his short hair, and smiled at Auron, his eyes unsure and almost searching for something in Auron's face. Auron's heart fell a little; he wondered—did Braska know? Had Jecht told him of his attractions?

"Are you alright?"

"What? Yes, of course, my Lord." It slipped out without any second though. Braska watched him intently, and it was clear that those blue eyes did not believe his words. Auron tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace. "What would be wrong?"

"You and Jecht seem to be on uneasy terms again. And you were getting along rather well at Djose. I am . . . worried. For both of you."

"Worried, Lord Braska?" The Summoner nodded a little bit. His smile was an indulgent one, his eyes knowing and almost parental.

"I know it must be hard for him, being away from everything he's known. I had thought it good for him, for both of you, when you two began your rapport. Still, I can understand your hesitance, I suppose." Then, his smile became cordial, if a little pressed. "Please, don't worry over me. Even at these times, you must think of your own well being as well."

"What?" The incredulous look on his face must have startled Braska. Then, his words began to sink in. Did Braska think that they were—? Auron flushed darkly, and lifted his hands, shaking his head almost violent. "Lord Braska, you misunderstand—!"

But perhaps he didn't. For all pretenses and purposes, that would be the image cast by the two of them, Auron supposed. Still, he could not help the vindictive little denial that sprang up in his throat. Braska blinked owlishly for a moment, before a slight color came to his cheeks. He coughed into his fist subtly.

"Misunderstand?" He thought that over, and coughed again, his color darkening. "Oh my—. Auron, I must apologize for my assumption. I'm afraid I've embarrassed both of us now."

"No, my Lord. It's my fault." Auron ducked his head, and clenched his fists into the bed cover. He felt like an idiot, sitting there and still unable to broach the subject of the truth behind Braska's claims.

Braska gathered his headdress and stood as he settled it. He touched Auron's shoulder gently, and squeezed, whispering, "Be well, Auron."

Auron still couldn't make the words come from his mouth—three simple little words, and he couldn't even bring himself to say them. What a pathetic wretch he was. He buried his face in his hands, and fell back on the bed again, wishing the world would open up and swallow him whole.

"What's with you?"

He didn't unbury his face, but waved indistinctly at Jecht's voice. A calloused hand caught his, holding it still. Fingers roughened by salt water and years of Blitz slid between his own sword-calloused digits, and he flinched back, stealing his hand away.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. Jecht shrugged, and sat on the edge of the bed. After a moment of staring at the setting sun blazing over the ocean, he looked back at Auron, and cocked a brow.

"Feelin' any better?"

"Yes. Please _go_, now." Jecht smiled, planting his hand on the other side of Auron's hip and leaning over. Auron turned his face away, flushing darkly.

"What's the rush?"

"You know, Braska was just speaking with me about . . . about . . ." He didn't even know what to call it. He waved indistinctly between their bodies.

"About _this_?" Jecht touched Auron's thigh gently, felt the quiver under his slacks, and his smile widened. "What d'ya tell him?"

"I didn't tell him anything, because there is no _this_." He batted Jecht's hand off, and slid away, standing to glare down at Jecht. Jecht met his gaze evenly, one brow cocked.

"Really? Nothing?"

"No, nothing." Auron shook his head, but wasn't sure whether it was to point out his own lie or to negate the entire situation. "I'm not attracted to you, and I do not wish for our . . . encounters to continue."

"Your brain says that, but your—."

"Shut up!" Auron snarled. He threw his arms wide, glaring at Jecht defiantly. "You aren't what I want from this world, Jecht, and I _know_ you don't see me like that, so would you please just leave me—."

"Who said what? I don't see you _how_, Auron?" Jecht was kneeling before him by that point, staring into his eyes at a point-blank range that made Auron quake and want to hurry away from the situation. He stood his ground, his fists tight and his jaw set.

"I hate you." He gritted it quietly, his eyes never leaving Jecht's. Jecht smirked, a tiny, quiet laugh leaving his lips in a short puff of air that ghosted just the side of Auron's lips.

The burst of movement lasted shorter than Auron's flying heart. Jecht reached for his wrist, just as Auron brought up a fist, and connected firmly with his jaw again. Together, they fell back on the bed; Auron struggled with the firm grip on his wrist, growling and swearing under his breath; Jecht rolled them both, until the smaller man was pinned beneath him, still struggling violently beneath him.

"Hey, cut it out—damn it, Auron—damn it, Auron, hold still for a minute, I'm trying to—_Auron_!"

There was a dull noise, and Auron stilled, his gaze passing slowly to the fist flexed into the mattress just beside his temple, a shuttering breath leaving his lips. If Jecht had moved one hair closer, he would've connected very painfully with Auron's face.

"Are you listening now?" He leaned in close, bumping their foreheads together and holding Auron's gaze powerfully. "Now, you're gonna shut the hell up and listen to me, or I'm gonna hogtie you, gag you and _make_ you listen."

There was no rebuttal to that, though Auron's smoldering glare quickly reiterated his earlier missive. Jecht left his fist planted beside Auron's head, and gripped his shoulder with the other one, shaking him.

"Look, I don't know what the hell Braska said to you, and I really don't care. But I'd like to know where you got the fucked up idea that I'm doin' all this just to piss you off. And it better be damn good."

"You have a wife," Auron hissed. Jecht snorted.

"Yup. And she's been dead for almost a thousand years." His grip tightened on Auron's shoulder, beginning to make the muscle and bone ache in protest. "Try again, kid."

"You want to go back to Zanarkand."

"Well, shit. Trust me, if I thought screwin' around with you could get me there faster, you wouldn't be lyin' here with all your clothes on." Auron blushed darkly, and sucked in a breath as Jecht's hand tightened on his shoulder _again_. "Lucky number three?"

Auron grumbled darkly under his breath, and looked away from Jecht. Jecht stared at him for a moment, before leaning forward just a bit more, until his ear was just beside Auron's lips, and his mouth set askew to Auron's own ear.

"I didn't catch that, kid," he whispered. Auron gave a breathy sound, and Jecht could just feel the flutter of long lashes darting on his cheek.

"You don't love me." The breath of words was hard to make out from the slur of Auron's gravely voice. Jecht smiled against Auron's ear, and slowly pulled back, releasing his shoulder and sitting back on his ankles over Auron's hips.

"What gave you that idea?" Auron stared at the ceiling blankly, and didn't speak. Jecht chuckled lightly, and rose from the bed.

He didn't leave for a minute, standing at the door. Auron could feel him there, staring out at the walkways of Kilika Port and the growing half-dark. His strides were heavy when they came back to his bedside. His lips were warm, and almost tender.

Auron laid very still in the dark, after Jecht had left, and wondered over the ache in his chest.

* * *

The trip on the S.S Liki to the Isle of Besaid was slightly more tolerable, in that an apothecary on Kilika had made some vile-tasting concoction for Auron to drink which settled his stomach like nothing else. The sea was calm and beautiful, all dark, glassy blue-green as far as the eye could see, with just a slight breeze at their tail.

Jecht was messing with the recorder. He had not mentioned the incident on the houseboat after it had occurred, and Auron had been at once relieved and little put off. Still, it had given him time to reflect on the change in events, and to analyze his own response and thoughts on the entire matter.

Auron was distinctly aware of Jecht filming himself and Braska as they stood side-by-side looking out over the ocean.

"After we get that aeon on Besaid," he asked, "where're we going?"

"Back the way we came," Braska replied gently, shrugging one shoulder. "Then we go north from Bevelle, and climb Mt. Gagazet." He turned then, and looked directly at Jecht. "Beyond that lies . . . Zanarkand."

Jecht backed up from them a little. He was smiling ruefully, looking up at the sun and squinting at the raw blue sky. "Zanarkand, huh? It's been in ruins for a thousand years, right?"

"So the legends say," Auron replied, looking back at Jecht and watching him intently. He approached him slowly, cautiously. "No one knows for sure. Perhaps it is still your Zanarkand."

Jecht smiled at his feet, and quietly murmured, "Thanks for trying, Auron."

Jecht turned off the sphere, and juggled the recorder from hand to hand for a moment. Auron, watching the movements and feeling the sway of the ship, felt a little green all of a sudden. Braska touched his shoulder gently, cocking a brow.

"Do you need to go under?"

"No, my Lord. I should be fine. Actually, I think I might go up higher." He pointed to the upper level, and smiled slightly as he bowed and wandered towards it. Braska nodded, and smiled as well; Jecht wasn't looking at him, but staring out across the ocean.

Auron lay on the upper deck, and simply listened to Jecht and Braska talk to one another.

"I thought if I went with you guys, I might find a way back. But it's not that easy."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, Braska. It's not your fault." There was a pause. "I should be thinking about fighting Sin now, anyway." And then another, longer one. "Zanarkand can wait. But I _will_ find my way back."

"Be careful, Jecht," Braska said.

"Hey, I'll be alright. You're the one who should be careful. Wouldn't want your little girl to cry."

"She'll be alright. She's strong, like her mother was."

* * *

The Isle of Besaid was picturesque in its simplicity. There was a small crowd waiting at the dock, though Auron suspected more of them were waiting apprehensively to see if relatives were returning from Luca or further north. Still, several of them smiled and greeted Braska and his Guardians respectfully.

Besaid, like Kilika, was obscure, though perhaps a bit more well known. Nobody really came that far south, except for Summoners, but Besaid's fabrics were known all around Spira. Their Blitzball team was also known, though for completely different reasons.

Besaid Village was tiny, even compared to some of the smaller villages on Kilika, or those that spotted Spira's countryside. Auron looked around, and suddenly found the sphere-recorder shoved into his hands; Jecht smiled a little, stretched, and sauntered towards the temple.

"Smallest heap of huts I ever seen." Braska chuckled, and stepped up along side Jecht.

"Now, that looks like a fine place to live." He sobered a little, sighing thankfully. "Auron."

"My Lord?" He stepped up, watching Braska's profile carefully. Braska was quiet, a little somber, but the smile was still on his face.

"When this is over . . . could you bring Yuna here? I want her to lead a life far away from conflict."

"You have my word. I will bring her here."

Braska turned a little, and stared at Auron seriously for a moment. Then, he nodded once, his smile softening.

"Thank you, Auron. You are a good friend."

From somewhere up ahead, closer to the temple, Jecht called out, "What're you guys doin'? Let's go! I'm so hungry, I could eat a whole shoopuf!"

Braska laughed a little. "Sorry. Well, let's go then."

Auron turned the recorder off, and tucked it into his own things, brooding over Braska's request. When this was over . . . he didn't know if any of them would be alive, let alone able to come back for Yuna. Still, if it was within his power, he would see it done.

Braska received the aeon from the temple, and they retired for a short time, before the youth of the island requested a show of the summoner and his guardian's skills. Many of them were Crusader hopefuls, ready to fight for Spira against Sin at a moment's notice. Most of them were younger than sixteen.

At the beach, Braska displayed his summoning skills for them, and even a bit of simple magic he'd learned 'once, a very long time ago'. Most of the youths were impressed. A single, red haired boy sat to the side, a Blitzball at his feet and a bit of scorn in his eyes. Auron approached him slowly, and sat beside him in the fine white sand.

"Not impressed?" The young man ignored him for some time, his eyes sharp on Braska's movements as he summoned something else. Glyphs glowed around him, bright in the growing darkness of the twilight.

The boy watched Braska critically, leaning over his knees a little. Auron looked at the boy's profile. His brown eyes slowly rose to Auron's face, and darted slowly, as though looking for some weak spot to poke through and shatter.

"What if Lord Braska's Calm isn't eternal?" the boy asked, and gestured at Braska. "The Summoners go off, and Sin comes back eventually. What if we don't atone, ya?"

"We will, some day." The redhead shrugged, grabbed his Blitzball, and tossed it into the air. Auron trod on safer ground; "Are you part of the team?" That got a curt little nod, a little shrug to negate that; Auron figured him too young for the team. He gestured to Jecht, off to one side, who was speaking with other blitzers. "Jecht plays as well."

"What team?"

"Ah . . . freelance." It felt a little bitter on his tongue, but it wasn't an absolute lie. The boy nodded a little, and stood. He cast another glance towards Braska, and then looked at Auron.

"I'll fight Sin too, ya."

"We all do." He nodded, and strode off towards the other Blitzers and Jecht. Auron sighed heavily, and sunk behind his knees to watch Braska across the beach.

Some time later, after a bonfire had been lit and Braska had settled down to hear recounting of fiend activity and general news, Jecht sat beside Auron, leaning back in the sand. He looked up at the stars, and was perfectly silent. A warm breeze came off the bay, and swept over them slowly. Auron shucked his jacket absentmindedly, and flopped back into the sand, using it as a pillow.

They didn't speak, just watched the stars and listened to the burble of conversation and crackle of the bonfire.

Braska watched his Guardians, and smiled slightly.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Auron sat in the same houseboat as before. He could hear the bemoaning cries of anguish, and the subtle sounds of water moving around under artfully shuffling feet. Tears stung his eyes, caught his throat with a lump he couldn't swallow. Jecht stood at the window that looked over the decimated bay, a silent pillar of strength and perhaps some confusion. The Sending would be over soon, and the elders of Kilika Port would want to talk to Braska and treat him well.

Jecht was behind him on the bed suddenly, his arms around his shoulders, a simple heavy, reassuring heat across his shoulders. Slowly, his hands rose, and his fingers curled around Jecht's wrists—not to pull them away this time, but rather to feel the fluttering pulse under the thin skin there.

"You doin' okay?" Auron nodded, a simple jerk of the chin. Jecht sighed against his ear, and nuzzled the soft skin beneath his jaw. "Are you worried about—?"

"I'm fine." But his voice shook when he said that, and was hoarse after being forced through the lump in his throat. Jecht's sigh was heavier and sadder than before, and his arms slipped off Auron's shoulders, and found their way around his waist instead, pulling him back against his chest. Auron went willingly, leaning his head back against Jecht's shoulder.

It was peaceful, leaning together in the growing twilight and trying not to think of a thousand other things. Jecht's pulse was a steady thump in his wrists, throbbing against Auron's thumbs. In the morning, he wondered if everything would be the same as it was now. He didn't want to think about that, worry about it.

He curled in towards Jecht's warmth a little, turning until he could tuck his face into Jecht's neck. Jecht made a soft little noise that rumbled through his throat and vibrated at the tip of Auron's nose, making him chuckle wetly.

"Are you okay?" It wasn't the same question as before. He shook his head, convincing himself that if he didn't look at Jecht, it was alright to admit his sudden weakness. Jecht's arms tightened around his waist, urged him to turn fully around and easing him onto his knees so he seemed to tower over Jecht and his intense red eyes.

He smiled softly, leaving his arms around Auron's waist, his hands loosely clasped so Auron could run if he needed to. Their eyes met evenly, and didn't break until Auron slowly slipped his arms around Jecht's shoulders, and leaned forward into his warmth.

The stubble on Jecht's cheeks was rough and reminding of his masculinity. His lips were a little chapped, but warm and damp, like he'd licked them before they began to kiss. Those strong arms tightened only a moment against his sides, before relaxing gently, hanging loosely around his hips. Red eyes slatted only half way open as they pulled apart, and remained at half-mast as Auron shyly began an exploration with fingertips and lips.

The sun had set. Auron could still hear the tears of ones who had lost their loved ones. He wondered if Braska was crying with them, mourning his six-years dead Al Bhed wife. He wondered if Jecht silently mourned his wife who he had never known had died, who he had never had a chance to grow old with.

Jecht's hands, now on the back of his thighs, kept him from running away. One hand abandoned his leg to lift his chin and kiss him hungrily. He chuckled thickly against Auron's lips, and quietly wondered what Auron had been thinking of.

"Did you ever comfort your wife like this?"

"Never had to." Auron tensed to leave, and Jecht's hand was back on his thigh, his kisses a bit more insistent. He never pulled away far enough for Auron to run, spoke in ghosting breaths that made Auron break out in gooseflesh.

Somehow, his jacket was gone, and then his shirt. He sat cross-legged, his hands under his ankles, and looked at Jecht through his eyelashes across the space between them. It seemed like miles. Jecht smiled softly, and pulled Auron closer by his wrist, leaning back a little so Auron ended up draped along the line of Jecht's body. Rough fingers caught on the ridges of his ribs, on the scars that laced his chest and stomach and back. There was an insistent but subtle tug on the waist of his slacks, and Auron flushed, his fingers tense on Jecht's shoulders and his head bowed.

"What if Braska—?"

Jecht kissed him, but Auron asked again, finishing his thought, when they broke. Jecht sighed, and his fingers slid up Auron's body; his arms draped over Auron's shoulders, and his red eyes blinked up at Auron's darker brown ones.

He shrugged once, leaving the choice up to Auron. His elbows shook where they were locked to support his weight on either side of Jecht. Silently, he grabbed one of Jecht's hand, and moved it very slowly down to his hip; Jecht chuckled quietly, and squeezed his hip reassuringly as he kissed him.

Auron willingly tumbled to Jecht's gentle motions, sprawling on the mattress and staring up at the ceiling beyond Jecht's head. His eyes closed to insistent kisses, and he found a whimper torn from his throat as Jecht slowly abandoned him on the bed. He followed him to the edge of the bed, staring up at him and his knowing little smirk.

"You ain't ready, kid." His voice was pained, his frustration evident in his eyes and the firm line of his jaw. Auron reached for him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back towards the bed, lunging up and kissing him hungrily.

Jecht pushed him back onto the bed, leaning over him, and then stood, just staring down at him. He sighed, and quietly reprimanded, "Go to sleep."

* * *

The seasickness came back on the deep seas beyond sight of Spira's shores. The deep-fishermen mostly sniggered behind his back, talking about what a weakling he was, unable to hold in his sickness for the benefit of his Summoner. 

He wasn't even sure what had possessed Braska. Most assuredly, this wasn't part of their original plan. But when Braska became intent, it was hard to dissuade the older man. And Jecht wasn't being very helpful, come to think of it; he seemed perfectly pleased with the idea of heading out to the middle of the ocean to look for a temple that had, supposedly, sunk into the sea.

Auron was, of course, obligated to come with him. The water was insanely frigid and knocked the air right out of Auron's lungs—Jecht fleetingly promised in a chaste whisper to warm him up when they got back.

It was a long swim to the temple, and Auron shivered fitfully when they surfaced within. Braska smiled apologetically to both his Guardians, and struck off, deeper into the cave-like temple.

"Lord Braska," Auron managed through his chattering teeth. "What do you hope to find here?"

"An aeon." His fingers caressed a wall, and then picked a sphere from the floor, inserting it into the slot on the wall. An unfamiliar glyph flashed, and the interior of the antechamber they occupied burst alive with a pale gray-green glow.

Braska continued quietly, his eyes intent on the glittering wall before them. "An aeon called Leviathan."

They approached the wall, and stepped through slowly, into yet another room, likewise lit by the dim light. There were six statues set in six deep alcoves. Braska looked around at each of them, running his fingers reverently over one after the other.

"Auron, get the Baaj sphere from the last room," he murmured as he stood before the last statue. Auron hurried back into the last room, removed the dark sphere, and returned to the room to hand the sphere over. Braska inserted it into a slot on the statue, and watched the glyph glow to life again.

He dug in his robes, retrieving five other small spheres—one from each temple they'd seen, Auron slowly deduced as each glyph flashed and glittered on the stone.

When the last sphere hit its slot, the room erupted into a brilliant light, and opened to a huge chamber. There were hundreds of flickering wicks, lit by the holy fire conjured from the spheres, and the soft trickle of water through veins in the floor and wall was a calming reflection. A flight of stairs led to the inner Chamber of the Fayth. Braska took a deep breath, and stepped forward to mount the stairs.

Auron collapsed into shivers when Braska disappeared, clutching his arms and rubbing them fitfully to try and bring life back to them. Jecht grunted, and stepped over, wrapping him tightly in his arms.

"You shouldn't've come."

"I-I h-had to," Auron hissed through his clenched teeth. Jecht sighed and rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath something about stubborn, pig-headed idiots which Auron supposed included him. He barked a laugh through his shivers, and ducked his head into Jecht's neck. "W-what about you?"

"I'm fine. Used to the cold." He ran his rough hands up and down Auron's arms, trying to bring the normal warmth back to them. "Ya should've kept your jacket."

"Would've . . . slowed m-me down."

"Then ya should've stayed on the fucking _boat_." Auron smiled slightly. Jecht frowned; his lips were nearly blue. He rubbed his thumb over them slowly, trying to coax the blood back up to the thin skin. "Damn it, Auron."

"I'm f-fine, Jecht." He pushed at Jecht's shoulders, and even stood for a moment, before his legs shook and gave out, and he fell back into Jecht's arms, clinging to his shoulders desperately for balance. Jecht sighed, and grabbed Auron under the shoulders and knees.

He sat on the cold stone of the steps to the Chamber of the Fayth, and settled Auron atop his thighs. As he rubbed his hand over Auron's arms to try and warm them, he dipped a finger into the water running in veins that left the stairs. The water was hot to the touch, and he cupped his hand to gather some, and splashed it over Auron's arm.

He hissed, and flinched away. Jecht rubbed his arms gently, working the warmth into the clammy, pale skin. Auron grumbled under his breath—it wouldn't do much to get warm if they were just going to swim back to the boat; he'd only get cold again.

His lips were still a little blue. Jecht caressed them again, then slowly leaned forward, pressing him lips against Auron's.

Auron flinched back, demanding an explanation. Jecht rolled his eyes a little and shook his head.

"If you don't warm up, being cold when we get back to the boat 's gonna be the _least_ of your problems." Jecht gripped the back of Auron's head and tilted him a bit before leaning forward again. Auron darted back. "What now?"

"W-we're in a t-temple!"

"Yeah? And you're freezing to death." Jecht balanced his hands against the air, and then gestured to Auron. "Which is more important: religious honor? Or keepin' your sorry ass alive long enough to get Braska to Zanarkand?"

Auron allowed the gentle kisses after that.

He dozed restlessly when Jecht finally let him, still cradled to Jecht's chest and still shivering a little. At several points, he was jostled awake by Jecht shifting under him. The door opening to the Chamber of the Fayth was hardly a thump in the dim daze of his half-waking state, and Braska's worried voice was a distant buzz.

He stumbled down the stairs at Jecht's prompting, and was fully awakened only when he was fully submerged in the cold salt water that hemmed the temple in.

It seemed to take an insane amount of time to swim back to the boat. Jecht picked Auron up as soon as they hit the deck, and Auron complained only a little, pushing fruitlessly against Jecht's broad shoulders. The deep-fishermen watched them in stunned silence; Braska followed them silently, a hurried and harried wraith in Jecht's shadow.

Auron slept the entire way back to Luca, buried in too-warm sheets that slowly lost their warmth to his frigid body, and were in turn rewarmed by Jecht's complacent, ever-present heat. He lulled in a half daze, and could hear Jecht and Braska talking over his head.

"Was it worth it?"

"I don't know. We'll see."

"If he dies—."

"He won't."

"But if he _does_, Braska. You'll never let yourself hear the end of it."

"You'd never let me hear the end of it either, Jecht." There was a chuckle in his voice, and a more hearty one over his head; thicker. That second one was Jecht's, so close to his ear. They were both blurry silhouettes in the darkness of the cabin.

"At least when he wakes up, I'll have somethin' to hold over his head."

"Don't you have enough of that already, Jecht? Or is it all things he can hold over yours?"

"We're kinda tied, I suppose." There was a smile in those words, a quiet joy Auron couldn't understand in his delirium.

Their voices were quiet and subdued, a gentle buzz of white noise. He couldn't hear them for a while. Then, their voices were back.

"Do you love him, Jecht?"

"Do you?"

"He's a good friend."

"That he is." Neither had answered the question. Auron grumbled in his half-sleep. Braska left, and Auron opened his eyes to see Jecht sitting on the side of the bed, his back to him. He jabbed him in the back.

"Why did you ask him that?" he croaked. Jecht smiled slightly, and grabbed his hand gently.

"How're ya feelin'?"

"Like a shoopuf sat on me."

"We're almost to Luca."

Jecht sat by the headboard, his rough fingers laced through with Auron's own sword-calloused ones, and Auron wondered what the answer to Braska's question was.

* * *

The journey back north was not nearly as interesting or eventful as the journey south. The tension was high in the air—there had been many attacks by Sin around Spira in the months they'd been traveling. Everybody seemed to be waiting for something, anything, to happen. 

Guadosalam was in a quiet state of mourning, their young Lord Seymour back from his failed pilgrimage and his father having holed themselves away in their underground manor. Braska didn't speak to the Guado, simply led his quiet, short procession up to the Farplane and entered without a word.

The place always gave Auron an oddly sticky feeling, like walking through spiderwebs, not simply because of the thought of all the dead souls residing there, but looking at the surrounding scenery. He wondered if any of it was real, or whether it was just a pale reflection of what was remembered from times long passed.

Jecht had looked for his wife among the dead, and had been unsurprised to not see her. He had shrugged, and loitered with Auron a respectful distance from Braska and his dead wife.

She was a pretty thing, all smiles and ever-silent understanding as Braska told her everything that had happened. It seemed like a stupid thing to do.

Jecht crossed his arms over his chest, and asked quietly, "Why would you do this to yourself? I'm glad she's not here; I wouldn't know what to say to her."

"Sometimes," Auron supplied quietly, "you just have to say goodbye more than once."

The Thunder Plains were even more dreadfully dull than the rest of the journey north. Jecht joked idly of what a grand reception they'd get in Bevelle when they got there, and more so when they _got back_ from Zanarkand. Braska's smiles became a bit more pressed, and Auron became a little more short-tempered.

Macalania was quiet and peaceful, as always. The fiends did not seem quite as deadly as they had when they'd come through last, though there was the ever-present danger of the Chimeras and general petrification.

They loitered in the middle of the afternoon in a clearing off Lake Macalania. Jecht wandered off at some time or another, and while Braska dozed silently in the clearing, Auron went in search of the other Guardian.

It was unsurprising to see him sitting at the edge of Lake Macalania, the sphere recorder set out just in front of him.

Jecht's voice was quiet, but Auron could just make it out. He stood at the edge of the path, and watched the man intently, his arms crossed over his chest. The scene unfolded flawlessly in the near silence of the woods, and Auron felt his chest constrict at the sight of the older man.

He could not relate to them. Of course, he had known that since Jecht had first spoken of his son and wife, but watching the Blitzer now, the idea was driven firmly home. Unlike Braska and Jecht, if he died, there was no one waiting for him back in Bevelle. The Temple had shunned him, and his family was dead. What was he fighting for? These men, older than him, were stronger and better fighters because they knew what they had to go home to.

They fought because they knew they were making something better for their children. They fought because their deaths would _mean_ something.

"Hey."

He looked up at Jecht, and straightened a little, unfolding his arms and ducking his head. Jecht watched him from the middle of the path, and turned back to look at the lake.

"It's . . . a nice day?" The awkwardness of the statement made Auron calm a little, made him push aside his thoughts. He looked up at the slowly more-golden light against the dark branches of thick trees, and watched the pyreflies that fluttered about the lake absently.

"Yes, it is," he replied with a quiet nod.

"Are we camping here tonight? Or in the Inn?"

"The Inn. Braska is resting now." Jecht nodded a little. He was watching Auron curiously, making the younger man shift a little under his intense red gaze.

"So," he finally sighed, beginning to sport a playful leer that unsettled Auron just a little. "What can I do for ya?"

Auron sighed a laugh, and punched Jecht in the shoulder, but allowed himself to be pulled close to the older man's chest, wrapped in his arms and held tightly. Jecht sighed against his ear, looking out over the lake.

"I think, when this is done, you and me should come back here first. Spend some time in the woods together."

Auron's chest tightened, and he nodded stiffly.

"Of course, Jecht. We'll come here first."

When they returned to the clearing, their fingers laced recklessly together, Braska was just waking from his doze. He smiled sleepily at them, yawned, and straightened himself quickly.

"Are we ready?" They both nodded a little, and he did as well.

They took the northern path out of the forest, and looked around the white pass and the Inn. Braska turned to Jecht, and smiled a little.

"May I borrow the sphere-recorder? I've a memory I'd like to make." Jecht blinked, and shrugged, digging the recorder out and handing it over to the Summoner. "Jecht, you and Auron stand in front of the Inn."

Jecht smiled, and dragged Auron over. Auron tugged his hand away, sulking a few feet off from Jecht, who looked a little hurt when Auron didn't stand right beside him. Braska looked over the recorder, and frowned a little.

"Auron, could you stand closer to him?" He nodded, but didn't move for several moments. Braska smiled thankfully at him. "Good, that should do it."

Jecht looked down at him. "What's the matter? Afraid I might bite?"

"Jecht . . ." He wasn't sure what he wanted to say, looking up at those red eyes. Jecht smiled and laughed, looking back over at Braska.

"Braska! You should take one too. It'd be a great gift for little Yuna."

"I suppose," he said with a laugh. Auron felt his temper crest, and started towards Braska.

"Lord Braska," he grumbled. His temper finally broke completely; he roared, "We shouldn't be wasting time like this!"

"What's the hurry man?" Jecht demanded jokingly. Auron snarled over his shoulder at him; the joyful expression left Jecht's face. He kept up his advance towards Braska

"Let me tell you what the hurry is!"

"Auron," Braska warned. But Auron grabbed the sphere-recorder, pulling it from his hands and turning it off, pitching it at the snow at Jecht's feet.

"You keep joking around like everything is going to be alright!" he shouted at the older man. "You keep going on about what we're going to do 'after it's all over'! But nothing is going to happen when this is over! There isn't going to be any parade for Braska to see, or any going around Spira!"

He gestured wildly behind him at Braska, and finally roared, "When this is _all over_, Braska is going to be dead, you idiot! We're taking him to his _death_—!"

"Auron, that's enough!"

He flinched violently; he'd never heard Braska shout before. Braska was shaking a little, staring at him intently. With a shuddering breath, he ducked his chin to his chest and apologized swiftly; there were tears pricking the corners of his eyes, threatening to freeze his cheeks if they began to fall.

"Let's just . . . go inside."

He felt Braska brush past him, but didn't move. His fists were tight at his side. The door to the inn opened and closed twice, and Auron knew he was alone.

With a pained noise, he fell to his knees in the snow, and sobbed over his hands.

* * *

"Daddy!" 

Braska laughed, and caught Yuna's running leap, spinning her around high above his head. She laughed and screamed, and hugged him tight around the neck when he held her close. Auron spared a little smile to her when she looked over at him and Jecht, and waved at her a bit.

She was at their feet almost as soon as Braska had put her down, performing the prayer of Yevon swiftly, directed more at their knees than at them. After bowing for a few seconds, she launched herself at Auron's knees, and hugged them tightly, making him stumble a little. Jecht's soft chuckle was a welcome sound.

"Sheesh, all the ladies love you, Auron. How _do_ you do it?" Auron only blushed a bit and shook his head, shooting Jecht a little glare. Jecht smiled, and knelt beside Auron, turning that smile on Yuna, who was watching him carefully. "Hey, little Lady. How're you t'day?"

"I'm quite well!" she squeaked, removing herself from Auron's legs. "How are you . . ." She looked up imploringly at Auron, blushing cutely.

"Jecht," he supplied offhandedly. She smiled brilliantly.

"—Sir Jecht?" Jecht gaped at her a little, and then up at Braska. She blinked cutely at his profile, loudly wondering if she had done something wrong.

"Braska, can I take her home with me?" Auron groaned and rolled his eyes; Braska laughed a little. Jecht grabbed Yuna under the arms, and slung her over his shoulder, turning on heel and striding down the Highbridge. Yuna squealed and smacked his back with little fists. Braska pulled out his staff as though ready to summon, and Jecht dropped her, smiling and laughing brightly.

It was good to see them both in such high spirits after his outburst at Macalania, and it soothed Auron's soul a little to see Yuna smiling up at her father.

It did not stop the little voice in his thoughts from reminding him that this would be the last time Yuna would see her father alive. He sighed heavily, and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to feel happy for father and daughter.

"You're thinking too hard again." Jecht flicked the back of his ear, and draped an arm over his shoulders. He shrugged a little, not to dislodge the arm, but simply for the movement. "He's a good dad, and he's right: she'll be alright, even after he's gone."

"She'll never get over that loss."

"I don't think anybody does." Auron looked at Jecht out of the corner of his eye, and caught a smile shot his way. "Wanna go freak some tight-asses out?"

"Not particularly. Most of the 'tight-asses' around here are old friends of mine." Jecht's hand was warm in his, his fingers a tight vice of gentle reassurance. He smiled breathtakingly, or as much as he could; it got a soft laugh out of Auron.

"All the more fun."


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

"It . . . it's _huge_!"

The statement was, in fact, quite an understatement, but as they were all just standing there, gaping at the wide expanse of grass and eternally-scarred earth, there was nothing else to describe it as; Jecht had put it quiet eloquently, it seemed, considering the dumbfounded nods from Braska and Auron.

Braska smiled out at the Calm Lands, and took a big, deep breath, which he exhaled slowly in an elated sigh. His shoulders sagged generously, as though loosened of the weight of the world, and his eyes brightened at the sight.

This was a far different man than the one that had left his daughter in Bevelle for a second time not two days ago. Yuna had not been stoic then, not so willing to let go; and Braska had been firm with anguish sparkling in his blue eyes. It had been Jecht to assure Yuna that everything was going to be alright this time. She had seemed to believe him far more than she had believed Auron, though she did look to him for a reassurance as well.

Then, she had valiantly released her father, and stepped back to watch him go north this time, her lower lip quivering but her eyes firm.

Braska had not spoken for the rest of that day, and Auron had made a conscientious effort te let the summoner deal with his grief as he felt he needed to. He'd sat up with Jecht's watch that night, curled over himself close to the fire and wondering _what_ he had been thinking; could he really protect Braska from Sin when he couldn't even protect him from the woe of his daughter? Or was he comparing two completely different things?

Jecht slung his arm over Braska's shoulders, and gestured around at the fields. "That, my friend, is one fine piece of landscaping right there."

"I couldn't agree more, Jecht."

"If you're both done complimenting an old battle scar?" Jecht smiled at Auron, and slung an arm over his shoulders as well, tugging him close; he shoved at Jecht, and grumbled, "Get off me."

"What's the rush this time? We can waste a couple of days, can't we?" There was a desperate edge to Jecht's voice, one that made Auron look up at him carefully, watching his profile with an intensity he hadn't mustered for the man since the day he'd seen him in the prison.

A warm breeze wafted off the plains, bringing with it the smell of a campfire or two, and the sharp warble of chocobos. Auron could not help the pleased little smile that broke over his lips.

They had made it this far. Perhaps . . .

Perhaps they would turn doubt and fear into praise, and defeat Sin once and for all.

* * *

The Calm Lands were perhaps not entirely aptly named. Fiends were everywhere across the plains, and harder than they had expected or prepared for. Skolls and Coeruls moved in quiet packs, occasionally stalking each other, or a passing chocobo or traveler. Off-center of the wide expanse, there sat a lone group building—a market place, and the tents they secluded, which seemed a silly thing and yet strangely appropriate, where Auron thankfully stocked up on antidotes and some of the better Potions.

Braska watched the fiends move about as though they were a natural part of the cycle. Auron supposed they were, after all. He lounged beside Braska with his back to the wide, almost dizzying display of tall grass, and watched instead the other Summoners that had made it so far as the Calm Lands, as well as the Al Bhed who ran this tiny commune.

Jecht had wandered off again. Auron sighed a little, and crossed his arms over his chest. Braska's smile was in his voice as he said, "Don't worry too much, my friend. Jecht won't have gone far."

"How did—?" He sighed, and shook his head. He supposed, after all things, there was no use denying it any longer. With a light chuckle, he cradled the back of his head, and looked up at the sky. Braska was smiling, watching him.

"I know that look," he said. His eyes were sad. "Young love."

"My Lord," Auron grumbled, blushing slightly. Braska touched his shoulder, his smile growing sadder.

"Hold on to it while you can, Auron. And keep holding on, even after this is all over."

"What're you old fuddy-duddy's talkin' about this time?" Jecht's sudden voice at his shoulder made him gasp and jump. He reprimanded the older man sharply, but got only a smile, laugh and slap on the shoulder for his troubles. Braska smiled knowingly.

"Nothing of interest. Just watching the clouds pass." He stretched, and yawned widely. "I'm going to rest for a while," he informed his Guardians, and wandered towards the tents without a backwards glance.

Jecht slid under the railing that did little at holding out most of the fiends—though the Al Bhed machina seemed a good enough deterrent—and lounged beside Auron silently. After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, he asked, "What were you and Braska really talking about."

"Nothing, really. Just a bit of . . . fatherly advise." It felt odd to call it that—he hadn't gotten fatherly advise in almost fifteen years—but it was the closest thing Auron could think of to call it. Jecht smiled a little, and cast an arm over Auron's shoulder.

"Never was good at that sorta stuff. The best I ever got and gave was 'no use cryin' in a salt-water ocean!', but Tidus didn't think it was all that funny. Little shit didn't talk to me for a week and a half."

Auron knew Jecht's son and wife was a sensitive subject. He didn't press the matter, simply leaned his weight against Jecht's side.

They were quiet, before Jecht finally blurted, "Are we actually sharin' a tent with Braska?"

"Uh . . . I don't think so." He looked up at Jecht and demanded, "Why?"

"N-no reason." There was a bit of color on Jecht's cheeks, and his hand felt a bit warmer on Auron's shoulder. He sighed, and shook his head a little, grumbling. Then, he grabbed Jecht's hand, and started dragging him towards the inn.

Sure enough, Braska had had the 'foresight' to pay for a second tent for his Guardians to sleep in. Auron had a very sudden urge to cut the entire venture short, march over to where Braska was resting, and throttle the meddling summoner in his sleep.

Jecht made a good show of distracting him, pulling him onto the bed and simply running his hands slowly up and down Auron's arms, his sides, legs and back. It was soothing, in some obscure, almost ticklish sort of way, especially when Jecht worried him out of his jacket and shirt, and only his rough fingertips were darting over his skin.

Auron turned his face away, embarrassed by the intimacy. Jecht leaned their brows together, his red eyes shut, and slowly wrapped his arms around Auron's waist, pulling him up onto his knees. He nudged them apart, slipping his thighs between them as Auron shyly wrapped his arms around his shoulder.

Jecht was a long, insistent band of heat on Auron's chest and side, his breath a humid puff against Auron's lips. He tilted Auron's chin up when he tried to duck it away again, watched his eyes and the subtle flush that grew on his cheeks as he rocked slowly against him.

Auron licked his lips absently, wanting to break Jecht's gaze, wanting to jump off the bed and run until there was nowhere else to run. But Jecht suddenly had him pinned—physically, in that they'd tumbled back on the bed and Jecht's gentle roll of the hip became a bit more aggressive; but also a bit more mentally. He couldn't bring himself to break gaze with the older man, like it was some sort of competition or something.

His fingers idled down Jecht's sides, and rested on his shorts shyly. Jecht smiled against the underside of his chin.

"Ever done this before, kid?" Slowly, shyly, Auron shook his head—which wasn't a complete truth, because he'd gotten just a little beyond the kissing and into fumbling adolescent touches the last time he'd tried anything like this and the chief warrior-monk in charge of the dormitory had beaten them for sick and deranged thoughts.

Jecht smiled a little, and moved Auron's hand up from his hips, resting it casually on his chest. "Not today, okay?"

"We don't have many tomorrows left for you to put this off to, Jecht," Auron hissed, but didn't replace his own hand. Instead, he grabbed Jecht's and, without a moment more hesitation—he might lose his nerve if he thought about it—he brought the hand down over the bulge in his slacks. Then, and only then, did he break his gaze from Jecht's, looking off to the side and blushing hotly.

Jecht stared at him, frozen by Auron's brash action, and then chuckled softly in Auron's ear. The hand covering his tightened a little, almost painfully, and his bent his own fingers with the pressure; Auron gasped lightly, his breath spreading to ruffle across the pillow.

"I ain't laughin' at you, kid," he whispered, moving his hand gently along the proffered prize. "Just wanna make sure . . . this isn't really a spur-of-the-moment thing, okay? Once I start goin'—."

"Don't treat me like a kid, Jecht," Auron demanded, though he still couldn't quite look at him. He shook a little under Jecht's subtle ministrations, and slowly forced himself to drag his gaze up to Jecht's face. His hips rose into the firm caress of Jecht's palm, and he wrapped his arms slowly around the older man's neck, drawing him down for a lingering kiss.

"Right, right," he murmured against full, kiss-bruised lips. His thumb caught on the waist of Auron's slacks, and he grasped there, tugging slowly downward. Auron lifted his hips obligingly, watching Jecht's slow movements through loosened wisps of his hair and thick, half-mast lashes.

He traced the twin scars on Jecht's face, making him start a little, and stared at the glossy skin for a long moment. Jecht covered Auron's hand with his own, hiding those scars, but simply displaying different ones.

"Well fuck," Jecht grumbled, leaning his head against Auron's chest. "You're just making me feel like one ugly son of a whore."

"You're not . . . ugly, Jecht," Auron said softly. Jecht snorted on his collarbone, and raised his head as he settled his palms on either side of Auron's face. Auron made an effort to kick his pants off of his ankles without upsetting the hot line of Jecht's body over his.

"Don't wax poetic, kid. It ain't your style."

"Don't call me kid, Jecht. It makes me think you like little boys." Jecht snorted a little, kissing Auron gently.

"Wow, a sense of humor? Imagine that."

"Hm. Weren't we planning on . . ." His hand skated down daringly, and pushed at Jecht's shorts, sliding them down slim hipbones. Jecht grinned against Auron's cheek, darting back to nip his earlobe gently.

"You're really okay with this, Auron?" He swallowed heavily, and nodded, a jerk of the chin that echoed the sudden tremors in his frame. Jecht smoothed a hand over his thigh gently, over his breastbone and his neck and shoulder.

There was a shuffle outside the tent, the quiet voice of a young woman calling to see if the tent was in fact empty or if they'd need anything or Auron knew not what, too distracted by Jecht's wandering hands. Jecht snapped something at her roughly when she got too insistently annoying, and Auron chuckled softly.

He managed to get Jecht's shorts off over his hips before he'd have to move. Jecht obligingly undressed himself the rest of the way, and casually settled over Auron, his skin fever hot and just as rough as his hands.

If Auron closed his eyes, he could rely more on touch, rather than sight, and that was a marvelous thing. Without sight, he could, for a moment, forget about the pilgrimage and their impending venture up Mt. Gagazet and down to the valley that housed Zanarkand. Without sight, he could forget that they lay in their last refuge before their final battle. Without sight . . .

Someone was outside the tent again, their presence more insistent and noticeable than the woman from before. Braska's voice was a quiet, heavy strain through the thick canvas. Auron started, and reached for his clothing; Jecht slammed a hand on his shoulder, and pinned him to the mattress.

"Where're _you_ goin'?"

"Jecht," Auron whispered, his voice a little warning. He shook his head, and shoved at Jecht's shoulder roughly. "Let me up."

"He wasn't callin' you out, so you're gonna stay _put_ and get what you've been askin' for." The sticky slide of Jecht against his thigh made him flush in embarrassed shame and push at Jecht's shoulder again. That hand stayed heavy on his shoulder, and those red eyes caught his worried, troubled gaze.

He demanded, "What's the big idea? You're the one so intent on gettin' me naked this time."

"Jecht . . . please."

It seemed to break the angry little trap Jecht had fallen into, but he still didn't let Auron up. He sat back on his heels and Auron's thighs, dragging him up with him. His hands skated down Auron's chest, landing unceremoniously in his lap and curling around his arousal.

Auron blushed, and tried to bend in on himself, muttering a complaint. Jecht kissed him, smothering his quiet rebuttals and encouraging the more favorable noises of their encounter; after a time, those willingly overpowered Auron's objections.

He lay there afterwards, spent and buzzing, quiet ministrations his only seeming link to the natural world as Jecht cleaned him dutifully. His face was a little sullen, and Auron spotted the obvious strain in the crouch of his shorts, which he'd replaced some time in Auron's haze. Making a plaintive little noise, he reached—.

Jecht batted his hand away, and nudged his clothes towards him as he stood and approached the hang of the tent, warm buttery light seeping through the break in the canvas there.

"Jecht," Auron breathed. He turned and looked back at him sourly, cocking a brow in half interest. Auron couldn't think of anything else; he said his name again, and got a sigh and up-turned red eyes in response.

Jecht left him then, without a word, and Auron dressed in confused and shattered silence.

* * *

This was it.

Mt. Gagazet was a towering pinnacle, its head in the clouds with cold winds flashing down its slopes to tease at the still warm air in the Calm Lands. The menacing holy mountain brought home the firm seriousness of the situation, making it sit like a heavy stone in Auron's gut as he craned his neck up and up to try and spot the summit.

This was it: the final leg before Zanarkand and the end of their pilgrimage.

Some small part of Auron reasoned that if he were going to stop the pilgrimage, now was his last chance. He smothered that voice beneath thick layers of guilt and ardent dedication, trying to bury its little insidious words of love more than its blasphemous idea.

The mountain made them quiet and solemn. Braska's eyes were not distant, but firm now. Perhaps, until they stood at the foot of that mountain, he too had been thinking of turning their procession around and disgracing himself as a summoner, just to live out his life with his daughter. Jecht was sullen and dedicated, his jaw set and his ideas on the entire situation surprisingly silent.

That worried Auron the most.

The Ronso of Gagazet supplied them with food for the last leg of their trip, some better weapons and various bottles of whatever they might need—Antidotes and Ethers and X-Potions.

The winds swirled dangerously, almost seeming to murmur encouraging words to pitch oneself over the precipice and to the ages-old tumbled and jagged rock below.

The first words Jecht spoke to him on Gagazet, as Braska wandered off with the sphere-recorder and a solemn face, only proved to make Auron's heckles rise. "Have you told him how you feel yet?" was the quiet demand, drawing Auron's startled glare. He stepped away from him, and stood before one of the memorials of a fallen summoner and their guardians.

Jecht persisted: "You have to tell him at some point."

"No, I don't. The time to have told him is long since passed." Jecht scoffed, crossed his arms over his chest, and frowned at Auron's stubbornness. He stepped passed him, and looked down over the side of the path; he cringed a little at the long tumble. Auron watched him. "Why do you want me to tell him?"

"Because it's tearing you apart." Auron watched Jecht's profile carefully, a small frown on his lips. Jecht slowly looked up at him, then up towards the summit and the too-blue sky beyond that. "I would've liked to have seen more of Spira."

"You could always turn around and go back," Auron pointed out brutally, gesturing back down the path. "What dedication do you have to Sin? Nothing. Your home has not been scarred, your family destroyed, your hopes and dreams—."

"I've gotta make sure you idiots get to Zanarkand, don't I?" Jecht whispered, his voice almost lost to the wind. Auron glared at him sharply, some insane part of him telling him to shove Jecht over the edge.

Jecht was watching Auron through the ruffle of his hair and the tail of his headband, his gaze slow and warm. He stepped back from the edge, and stood at Auron's shoulder, a hand gripping him just above the elbow. Over his shoulder, he could see Braska's return.

Jecht's voice was a quiet, husky murmur. "You have to tell him at some point. Saying goodbye after someone's dead is one thing. But you can't tell a ghost you love them."

He stepped around Auron, and started up on the path ahead of them, leaning into the wind.

Auron wondered if that, in Jecht's obscure fashion, was some sort of confession.


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six:**

Zanarkand stretched out before them, a pile of indistinct gray rubble and fluttering pyreflies in the early dusk. Braska had them camp on the edge of the city, still in the foothills of Mt. Gagazet, and watched with growing apprehension as the pyreflies intensified with the growing darkness.

"The fiends will be thick here," he murmured as Auron struck a tent-spike. He looked up at the Summoner, and nodded a little. Jecht's words from early rang in his ears, heavy and poignant as he watched Braska's effortless, unconscious grace as he built a fire.

He looked up suddenly and asked Auron, "Do you know where Jecht has gotten off to?"

"No," he admitted, standing. "Shall I go look for him?"

"Please. I don't want anybody walking alone around here." He looked out over the rubble again, and shivered violently, despite the warm early-autumn air and his thick robes. Auron struck the last spike, stood and brushed his hands off as he walked away.

He paused just on the edge of camp, nearly returned to voice his mind, and then kept walking, looking around in the half-dark for an indistinct form that looked more human than fiend.

The setting sun burst through the sparse cloud-cover on the distant horizon, and shone through the taller pillars of crumbling structures. Auron stood on a high precipice over the valley that housed holy Zanarkand, and looked out over the decimated city.

He startled when warm arms wrapped around his waist, and then relaxed into Jecht's heavy, strong warmth. Jecht raised one arm, and gestured towards a far distant shore.

"That's where the houseboat is—was. There's a dock down there, and I taught Tidus to play Blitzball there." The outstretched finger shifted to the north a bit more. "The Blitz stadium's there. It was on an island; you had to ferry out to it to avoid the crowds on the bridge."

"It must have been beautiful," Auron murmured, trying to imagine what these things would look like. He saw only the indistinct rubble in the growing dark.

"My wife, she hated the lights of the city, but we both loved the city itself. We used to come up near here and sit and just watch the city. Before Tidus was born." Jecht's arm slowly retracted from its remaining gesture, and slunk back around Auron's waist.

"Jecht," Auron murmured towards Zanarkand; the man gave an indistinct affirmative to keep talking. "About . . . what you said on the slopes."

"Yeah, sorry about that." He nuzzled the back of Auron's neck, a hand darting up and pulling at his hair tie absently. His hair tumbled loose in the breeze, and Jecht combed his fingers through it. "I know it ain't my business whether you tell him or not. Just sucks to see you beatin' yourself up over it."

"Uh . . . yes." He silenced his doubts and original question, and leaned back into Jecht's now comfortably familiar warmth.

They were silent, watching the darkness spread over Zanarkand and the stars begin to peak out into the inky sky. The pyreflies fluttered around, gravitating to them mindlessly and swirling languidly between their legs and around their bodies before flashing away into the night like shooting stars. Auron spoke quietly as he felt his eyes droop.

"Braska will be worried about us if we don't get back soon."

"Just a couple more minutes."

They stood there. There were other campfires sparkling in the distance of Zanarkand—other Summoners who thought they could live long enough to see Zanarkand and come back from it alive.

"I want . . ." Jecht murmured.

Auron turned in his arms, wrapped his own around Jecht's shoulders and looked up at him. Jecht just kept his eyes darting over the ruins of what had once—and perhaps would always be—his home.

He didn't finish his thought, but started humming the Hymn of the Fayth softly. Auron quietly chuckled, and leaned his head against Jecht's shoulder. His humming reverberated against Auron's ear; he joined his quiet hum with the actual words of the hymn, a quiet whisper of air along Jecht's collarbone.

"I'll miss ya, Auron," Jecht murmured as he finally conceded to walking slowly back to their camp. His hand slid into Auron's, their fingers lacing, and smiled a little in the darkness.

"I'll . . . miss you too, Jecht." The light of their fire curled around the corner of the path. Jecht pulled them to a halt, and stood staring at the flickering light for a moment. Auron tensed a little, suddenly worried. "Jecht?"

"You . . . should tell him, Auron. If you really love him, you should tell him before we get to the end of this."

Auron stared at Jecht for a moment, and smiled softly. He leaned forward, his arms around Jecht's neck, and quietly murmured, "Take you own advice, fool."

And with that, he dropped from Jecht's embrace, and strode around the corner to their camp, settling into the welcome ring of light from their fire. Jecht wasn't that far behind. Braska smiled gently at them both, and handed them a meager meal.

* * *

The eerie ghosts of the past made Auron's skin crawl as they moved through the Zanarkand Ruins, towards the stadium Jecht had spoken so affectionately of the night before. Perfectly oblivious to their wayward audience, they would rush on their repetitive paths, occasionally fluttering right through one of them. 

Auron seemed to draw that the most. The memories felt sticky and warm, like the water at Lake Macalania, clinging to his skin and smothering him a little with worry and dread left over from years and years earlier.

He wondered if they would show up to other generations of Summoners and their Guardians, if they didn't succeed in bringing the Eternal Calm.

The decimated dome loomed overhead, all slanted rock pillars and dark corners, the hiss of fiends loud and echoing. Jecht led them through most of the rubble, seeming to know just where they needed to be—though he admitted to never knowing that there was a temple anywhere in Zanarkand. Auron wasn't all that surprised with the admission.

"Hey Braska," Jecht said as they picked their way carefully through the rubble. "You don't have to do this."

"Thank you for your concern." Braska's voice actually shook a little. Auron watched his back, frowning a little. Jecht shrugged, and stretched absently.

"Fine. I've said my piece."

"Well I haven't," Auron bit. He grabbed Braska's shoulder, and turned him almost roughly. His fingers tightened in his robes, and he met his stunned blue eyes evenly. "Lord Braska, let us go back. I don't want to see you . . . die."

"You knew this was to happen, my friend." He picked Auron's hands off his shoulder, and held them gently.

"Yes, but I . . ." Auron shook his head, blinking back his angry, frustrated tears. "I cannot accept it!"

Braska laughed lightly, a strained noise that hurt more than the thought of Braska's impending death. "Auron," he murmured, lifting a hand to his young Guardian's cheek, "I am honored you care for me so. But I have come to kill grief itself. I will defeat Sin, and lift the veil of sorrow covering Spira." A tear treked unnoticed down Auron's cheek, hidden in the darkness. "Please understand, Auron."

He stepped back, and moved along. Jecht moved passed Auron slowly, leaving him to stand in stunned and petrified silence for several long moments, before he jogged to catch up.

There was no grand entrance into the Temple of Zanarkand. Rubble littered the walkway and stairs up to the door that they all knew led to their inevitable end. Auron's chest felt tighter with every step they mounted. They loitered at the top landing silently.

"Are the Trials ahead?" Jecht asked unnecessarily.

"Probably," Braska quietly replied. Jecht groaned, and cradled the back of his head as he looked at the broken ceiling.

"Here too, huh? Gimme a break." He sighed. "I was expecting, you know, parades and . . . fireworks."

"You can ask for them," Braska whispered, his hand on the door to the Cloister of Trials, "after I defeat Sin."

The cloister seemed particularly grueling, compared to any other they had done to that point. Auron, favoring his left arm a little, followed Jecht and Braska from the cloister and onto the lift, which brought them to another door.

This opened to a wide antechamber much like any other Temple, and the stairs that would ascend to the Chamber of the Fayth. They looked around slowly. Here, there were no ghost-like memories, no scant touch of humanity or warmth left. All that remained were scars a thousand years old and a scattering of plaster dust from the continued crumbling of the ruins.

The doors of the upper chamber opened, and they started, looking up the stairs. Braska gasped, taking a shuffling step forward. Auron stared with wide, unbelieving eyes. Jecht simply stared, his eyes almost appraising of the scantily clad woman slowly descending the stairs.

"Lady Yunalesca . . . ?"

* * *

The Lady of Zanarkand had left them to loiter in silence as they deduced their sensible path. Auron snapped, after the silence dragged on for what felt like hours, and bit out, "It's not too late! Let us turn back!" 

"If I turn back, who will defeat Sin?" Braska asked, looking over at Auron seriously. "Would you have some other Summoner and his Guardians go through this?"

"But . . ." Auron shook his head desperately. His voice was caught around the tightness in his chest. He gritted out, "My lord, there _must_ be another way!"

"This's the only way we got now!" Jecht interrupted, shaking his head firmly. He pulled back, crossing his arms over his chest with a firm finality. "Fine. Make me the fayth."

Auron hissed in a breath, staring at Jecht incredulously. Braska raised a brow slowly. Jecht simply shrugged, and held his hands up defensively.

"I been doin' some thinkin'. My dream's back in the other Zanarkand." He was quiet a moment, before whispering, "I wanted to make that runt into a star blitz player, show him the view from the top, ya know? But now I know there's no way home for me. I'm never gonna see him again. My dream's never gonna come true.

"So make me the fayth." He held up one firmly clenched fist, grinning a little. "I'll fight Sin with you, Braska. Then maybe my life will have meaning, ya know."

Auron shook his head vehemently, saying, "Don't _do_ this Jecht! If you live . . . there may be another way. We'll think of something, I know!"

Jecht smiled softly, and it took Auron a moment to realize he had said 'we'. A tear rolled slowly down his cheek when Jecht shook his head.

"Believe me, I thought this through. Besides . . ." He stretched a little, laughing under his breath. "I ain't gettin' any younger, so I might as well make myself useful."

"Jecht," Braska murmured, stepping up to his Guardian.

He scowled a little. "What? You gonna try and stop me too?"

"Sorry," Braska said, then shook his head a little.. He touched Jecht's shoulder gently. "I mean . . . thank you."

Jecht nodded, and turned to start walking up the stairs, Braska not far behind. He stopped, and turned at the first step, pointing a finger aggressively at Auron.

"Braska still has to fight Sin, Auron. Guard him well. Make sure he gets there." He sighed, and dropped his hand, looking at Braska. "Well, lets go."

They began up the stairs. Auron growled, and started after them. "Lord Braska! Jecht!"

"What do you want _now_?" Jecht demanded without turning back to look at him.

Auron clenched his fists tightly, and shook his head. He spoke softly, but his voice reverberated tinnily through the entire chamber. "Sin always comes back. It comes back after the Calm every time!" He looked up at them, and roared, "The cycle will continue and your deaths will mean nothing!"

Braska looked back at him, and smiled softly. "But there's always a chance it won't come back this time. It's worth trying."

Jecht nodded in agreement, and gave Auron a thumbs-up. "I understand what you're sayin', Auron." He grinned. "I'll find a way to break the cycle."

"You have a plan?" Auron asked softly. Jecht just kept smiling.

"Jecht?" Braska asked, touching his arm gently.

"Trust me, I'll think of something."

Braska mounted the stairs first, and slipped soundlessly into the chamber of the Fayth. Jecht stopped and asked quietly, "Can I ask you one last favor?" He looked over his shoulder at Auron, and then shook his head. "Uh . . . nah. Never mind."

"Out with it!" Auron snapped, taking a step towards the stairs. Jecht turned all the way around, crossing his arms as he stepped down the stairs and slowly approached.

"Okay. Listen close: Take care of my son." Auron cocked a brow. Jecht shrugged a little, and kept going. "My son, in Zanarkand. He's such a crybaby. He needs someone there to hold his hand, see? Take care of him, will you?"

Auron snapped with a vindictive anger, "But how am _I_ supposed to get to Zanarkand?"

Jecht smiled a little, and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked away for a moment, before he said, "Hey, you said it yourself! There must be a way to get there, right? You'll find it."

For a long moment after that, they stared at each other. Auron finally threw up his arms and grumbled regrettably, "Alright, I will. I give you my word. I'll take care of your son." He swallowed thickly and continued, "I'll guard him with my life."

"Thanks, Auron." Jecht hesitated a moment, before grabbing the younger man and hugging him tightly. Auron blinked at the warm, tan shoulder at his eyelevel, and shook like a blown leaf as Jecht stepped back and held him at arms length. He smiled, and said, "You were always such a stiff, but that's what I liked about you."

He turned then, hurrying up the stairs and into the Chamber of the Fayth. As the door shut with a shattering finality, Auron sank to his knees, and sobbed restlessly, one hand to his eyes and the other gripping his knee tightly.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

In the foothills of Mt. Gagazet, there was a light, warm breeze coming off the Calm Lands, ruffling through the sparse, dry grass trying to make a living on the cold-dirt slopes. The path was slick with frost from a few nights earlier. Braska stumbled periodically, holding his head and grunting under his breath. Auron held him by the elbow, and worried over the pain flashing in his eyes. He wondered if it was supposed to hurt—no other aeon pained Braska so; why would this final aeon do so? Were the fayth not all human at one time?

Auron didn't want to think about that, didn't want to think that Jecht was there, an aeon within Braska's soul.

Braska began to tumble, and Auron caught him, holding him tightly and only releasing him by firm conscious thought. Those too-blue eyes, so thankful and yet regretful, flashed with red when they fell on him; a smile broke lips paled with pain. They continued on.

The Calm Lands were too quiet. There were no fiends, no quiet 'kweh' of chocobos. It was utterly silent, except for the whisper of wind through the tall grass, a quiet noise almost akin to the very breath of Spira.

Braska's grip was harsh on his arm. It hurt, squeezing the muscle and bone enough to make him cringe. The expression never met his face. He had promised to be strong, to protect Braska until there was no Braska left to protect.

"Lord Braska," he murmured, turning to look at the older man. It took a moment before the summoner sluggishly looked over at him. Auron frowned, and turned, grabbing the wrist of the hand that gripped him so tightly.

He said, "You don't have to do this."

"I haven't much longer, Auron," Braska murmured, staring beyond his shoulder. The winds shifted, grew harsh and cold and biting, like the winds on the slopes of Mt. Gagazet.

Auron wrenched his arm free, and grabbed Braska's shoulders firmly.

"Braska, what will it matter now? _Please_, don't do this!" Those blue eyes flashed with red again, then grew knowing and lucid. He grabbed Auron's hands and leaned in, kissing his brow gently.

"I want you to go. The Al Bhed will be leaving, very soon. You must go with them; you'll be safe."

"I _promised_, Braska—Yuna, and Jecht—that I would keep you safe," he growled, keeping his hands firm on Braska's shoulders and the flush out of his cheeks. "Now, in your hour of need, I will not abandon you. I am your guardian—."

"And as my guardian, you must do as I ask of you." He smiled, and dislodged Auron's now slack grip, stepping around him. "When Sin arrives, run. Stay with the Al Bhed. They'll keep you safe, know where to go."

"Lord Braska," Auron bemoaned. Braska was moving steadily away from him, his back ramrod straight, his staff held in a white-knuckle grip. The sight of that man, so simple and small against the vast expanse of the Calm Lands and the swiftly darkening sky . . .

Auron snapped, and roared over the sound of the wind, "I love you, Braska!"

He stopped, his grip still far too tight. His eyes were pained when he peered over his shoulder. They flashed red as a smile broke his lips, and stayed thus as he gave Auron a thumbs-up. Then, he turned away, and was that silent, solitary figure against the backdrop of nature.

The Al Bhed were rushing away, shouting between each other in their strange language. Braska stood still, even as they moved around him, and looked over his shoulder again as they began to pass Auron.

Auron didn't move, staring at Braska. The summoner frowned a little, turning to face him. The wind picked up violently once more, whistling shrilly through the valley. Braska turned away without saying anything, and began to stride away once again.

An Al Bhed caught his arm, speaking too swiftly and worriedly in his own tongue to be even vaguely understood. Auron allowed himself to be dragged along with the tide of fleeing people, peering over his shoulder as Braska kept his advance against the tide.

Sin was there, with a stunning, fierce abruptness. Auron stopped, staring stupidly back at the sight. Braska had begun to summon. His steps were stumbling shambles of his perpetual grace; jerky, uncontrolled movements. There were no glyphs around him, just a dull red glow, like he was being lit from the inside.

The summoning itself took on a much more wild suddenness. Auron's stomach turned at the sight he beheld, unable to tear his eyes away. The display before him . . . no, it couldn't be real. This was all some terribly nightmare, entrapping him in its death throes.

He fell to his knees, and vomited violently between his hands. Someone hauled him to his feet, dragging him away from the disgusting sight. His brain was a balefire of disbelief and denial, his feet stumbling weights as he was practically dragged along with the stream of people.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen . . . this wasn't—.

* * *

The ruins of Zanarkand were strangely alluring, the first beads of light a peaceful grayness over strew rubble and old emblems. It was peaceful, quiet; the shuffle of his feet through grating stone and dust seemed to be the only noise besides the gentle ocean breeze coming in from the bay-fronts.

Sin was gone now. Braska and Jecht were dead. Auron's gut and chest were tight, his mouth dry and sooty. He had promised to keep Braska safe, and had failed. What else was there to do, but face the source of the anger and pain that clenched his chest like a rough grip?

Everything was as it had been, dust settling over their footsteps through the dome and the cloisters—those had not reverted to their waiting slumber, but remained as gaping as they had been when they had left. The stairs to the Chamber of the Fayth did not seem so forbidden and ominous. He mounted them with a swift determination, almost frightened that, if he lingered, he would lose the gallant fearlessness he'd gathered when he'd left the Al Bhed's care.

The Chamber of the Fayth was nothing like he had imagined. Stars glimmered in constellations unknown to him, stretching far beyond the human sight to become an indistinct gray line all around the 'room' that housed the thick stone slab he stood upon. Rubble was scattered here too, overturned stones that looked to hold the faces of men and women.

Yunalesca was a shimmering apparition on the edge of his sight, her face a mask of feral anger. Auron met her gaze evenly, his fist tight on the pummel of his sword.

"Was it worth it?" he hissed venomously. She arched one cultured silver brow at him, taking a cautious step closer.

"You cannot be here, guardian," she murmured as her only response. He sneered, his shoulder stiffening tightly.

"I'm no guardian now. Were their deaths worth it?" She did not look at him, and waved a hand almost flippantly.

"Of course," she purred gently. "Sin is gone, is it not? Be at peace, guardian, and leave this place."

"But Sin will be back," Auron pressed. Yunalesca stared at him darkly, her fists slung to her hips provocatively. She tossed her head a little, her long silver hair falling around her shoulders like a shimmer fall.

"Of course."

"Then how were their deaths of any use?" he demanded, stepping towards her. She stiffened, her eyes widening at the offense of being approached so brusquely. He stilled, his fists tight at his sides.

"The summoners and guardians bring Spira hope," she said quietly, her voice an eerie echo upon itself. "Without Hope, Spira has nothing. Without Sin, there are no summoners. Sin brings Spira hope, guardian."

"_What_? But the teachings say: if we atone for what we have done, Sin will be defeated. The Eternal Calm—!" Yunalesca sneered beatifically down at him.

"Sin is eternal."

"_No_!" he roared, stepping quickly towards her, drawing his sword as he went. She flinched back reflexively, her eyes wide again. He shook his head violently, saying, "Braska believed in the teachings and _died_ for them! Jecht believed in Braska and gave his _life_ for him—."

"They chose to die . . . because they had hope."

He could take no more of this foolishness. With a roar, he was upon her, slashing madly down.

Then, he was on his back, staring at the slanting and spinning stars, hearing the clatter of his sword and feeling a strange tightness and sting to his entire right side, searing through his body like a brand. Yunalesca was talking shrilly down at him, but her words were indistinct, distant. Everything felt quite peaceful, like the cool Zanarkand early morning.

The sun broke and rose over the bay-front of Zanarkand, a burning brand of golden joy on a Spira once more renewed with hope.

* * *

He was at once aware of three things: the biting cold of the wind on his face; the displaced sensation of his hands resting heavy on the ground; and the distant sensation of someone standing over him, looking down.

Eyelashes fluttering, the right sluggish and tacky, he trained his lethargic gaze noncommittally up at the figure towering over him, cringing at the sharp light that silhouetted the shape. Still, there was something remotely familiar about the shadowed frame.

Slowly, everything drew into near-sighted focus. Auron found himself looking up the long lines of a young, blue-furred Ronso, who snorted a little, staring down at him with this sort of puzzled and chagrined expression.

"Braska . . ."

He choked on the word, turning his face away from the Ronso for a moment. Vertigo swept over him fitfully with the movement, and he grumbled under his breath, all foul words and stumbling, annoyed incoherence.

He forced himself to look back at the Ronso, to keep his voice serious and free of the waver it had held with his summoner's name.

_His summoner_.

"In Bevelle . . . is the daughter of Summoner Braska. Find her. Take her—." His vision clouded for a moment, and he felt his spine tense painfully against the stones he leaned upon. The Ronso knelt before him, grasping his shoulder. Auron didn't look at his face, staring instead at the sky. It was so blue . . .

He mumbled, not even worried if the Ronso could hear him, "Take her away. Besaid. To Besaid. It's . . . what he wanted."

The sky was so blue . . .

* * *

There was a hazy quality to everything, like the dull area between sleeping and waking, when you thought you could still touch your dreams, but you could hear everything around you as well. He was rather fond of that gray area, found so many times in the early morning as warm arms had slid around his waist and quiet words had brushed his ear, barely waking him.

He was dead, then. There was something humorous about the knowledge. Did the dead know they were dead? Presumably. And those that refused to acknowledge it would become the Unsent. Yes. That made sense.

If he laid very still, he could even feel the haze of everything. He opened his eyes slowly to the haze, looking around with that lethargic grace that came with sleeping, and apparently death as well. There was nothing but that haze, farther than the eyes could see—though they couldn't really _see_, could they, because in both sleep and death, there was no _seeing_; only having the knowledge of what something would look like.

Logic had no place in the haze. His feet were heavy. He walked, without direction or purpose. There was a strange niggling in his gut, some small voice in the back of his head telling him: "You can't keep going on! What about your promises?"

But hadn't he kept his promise? Or at least passed along that promise.

"And what of Jecht's promise?"

The haziness took on a dully sharp cast, like cutting glass, shards of broken panes all over a flagstone floor. He blinked—not really, but there was that knowledge of that—and wondered over that little voice stupidly.

Yes, he had made a promise. A stupid one. One borne of duty and pride and . . . and perhaps love, as well. There was no way to keep it. He kept walking.

"Idiot."

That voice. He turned slowly, looking over the haze slowly.

The figure, silent and sentinel, was a common staple of his dreams. There was no question in his mind as his pace drifted towards the back turned to him, as his arms snaked around a tanned, lightly scarred waist and his hands rested flat to warm abdominals. Hands drifted to his, covering them. He buried his face fruitlessly in warm shoulder blades, thinking that perhaps he was not dead.

Perhaps this was all just a dream.

But if he woke up, would any of it have happened? His fingers drug over the thin, indenting scars closest to them and the definition of firm muscles. If he woke up, would any of it be real?

"Are you a dream?" he asked without really speaking. He could hear the words in his head, but they were instantly swallowed by the consuming void around them.

There was no answer. He wondered . . . . If this was a dream, perhaps he could simply crawl inside the skin presented to him and never leave. Perhaps he could sleep away the rest of his days. That wouldn't be so bad, he supposed.

"Are you anything?"

The hands on his fell away, slid back and gently touched his hips. They burnt, so hot through the fabric of his slacks. He thought he might have sobbed. He wouldn't mind sleeping a bit longer.

"Are you real?"

The hands fell away entirely. He shuddered, his eyes shut to that rich-tanned back and the swallowing gray of all of it. His own hands fell away, and there was nothing but the abysmal cold of nearly waking.

"Alright," he whispered, just able to hear his words instead of simply know them. "I'll go."


End file.
